"That's right," assented the Bishop. "I'll go get him
myself."

"You--you're not going!" I cried in dismay. It was real.
I hated to see him go.

"Nonsense--'phone." It was Edward who went himself to
telephone for the doctor, and I saw my time getting short.

But the Bishop had to go, anyway. He looked out at his horses
shivering in front of the house, and the sight hurried him.

"My child," he said, taking my hand, "just let Mrs. Ramsay
take care of you to-night. Don't bother about anything, but just
rest. I'll see you in the morning," he went on, noticing that I
kind of clung to him. Well, I did. "Can't you remember what I
said to you in the carriage--that I wished you were my daughter.
I wish you were, indeed I do, and that I could take you home with
me and keep you, child."

"Then--to-night--if--when you pray--will you pray for me as if
I was--your own daughter?"

Tom Dorgan, you think no prayers but a priest's are any good,
you bigoted, snickering Catholic! I tell you if some day I cut
loose from you and start in over again, it'll be the Bishop's
prayers that'll do it.

The Dowager and I passed Edward in the ball. He gave me a look