usual signs of emotion. But on his face was a look of awe and tenderness, as if some holy and wonderful vision had just been revealed to his mortal eyes.
At the junction the rector bade him Godspeed, and left him to continue his journey alone. But, somehow, the sight and expression of Barry's dull and simple grief had served to soften the harsh musings with which the minister's own mind was filled.
It was late afternoon when he reached the episcopal residence. A rich and pious widow, dying, had made testamentary provision for the erection of this beautiful bishop's home, whereupon disgruntled heirs had severed their relations with the Church, and had sought religious shelter in another fold.
The rector approached the quaintly fashioned entrance by a path bordered with blossoming crocuses and tulips, rioting in a very wantonness of color. The sinking sun threw a mellow, yellow light on the flowers, on the fresh green of the lawn, on a spreading maple just starting into leaf. But the minister saw nothing and realized nothing of the peace and beauty that surrounded him. His step was heavy, his eyes were dim, his face was the face of one who has witnessed horrors, and cannot shut out the sight or memory of them.
The bishop was awaiting him. If he had framed any words of condemnation for this priest of his diocese, one look at the man himself drove them utterly and forever from his mind. At a glance he read in the countenance of the minister a story of suffering, of humiliation, of bitter and blinding defeat, that would have made episcopal reproof as cruel as it was unnecessary.
He put his arm tenderly about his visitor's shoulder and led him to a chair.
"I know it all, Farrar," he said. "What I have not heard and read I have easily divined. I suffer with you."
