"Will you be friends with me, Eleanor Gray? I knew your mother a long
time ago, when she was Eleanor Gray." Eleanor yawned frankly. That might
be true, but it did not appear to her remarkable or interesting. The
deep voice went on, with a moment's interval. "Where is your mother? Is
she here?"

Eleanor laughed. "Oh, no," she said. "Don't you know? What a funny man
you are--you know such a few things. My muvver's up in heaven. She went
when I was a baby, long, _long_ ago. I reckon she must have flewed," she
added, reflectively, raising clear eyes to the pale, heat-worn sky that
gleamed through the branches.

The Bishop's big hands went up to his face suddenly, and the strong
fingers clasped tensely above his forehead. Between his wrists one could
see that his mouth was set in a hard line. "Dead!" he said. "And I never
knew it."

Eleanor dug a small russet heel unconcernedly into the ground.
"Naughty, naughty, naughty little grasshopper," she began to chant,
addressing an unconscious insect near the heel. "Don't you go and crawl
up on the Bishop. No, just don't you. 'Cause if you do, oh, naughty
grasshopper, I'll scrunch you!" with a vicious snap on the "scrunch."

The Bishop lowered his hands and looked at her. "I'm not being very
interesting, Eleanor, am I?"

"Not very," Eleanor admitted. "Couldn't you be some more int'rstin'?"

"I'll try," said the Bishop. "But be careful not to hurt the poor
grasshopper. Because, you know, some people say that if he is a good