The bishop could not accept MacCammon's invitation to come with them in the car, because he had his own little runabout. But wouldn't Miss Doris come with him for a run through the park, and along the lake front? MacCammon held his breath. Would she?
Doris put out her hand, quietly but cordially. "I know you will excuse me to-night, Bishop. I do not feel like talking, or—anything—just like going home quietly with Rosalie to think."
Never had MacCammon loved her as he did at that moment. The bishop walked down with her to the car and opened the back door for the girls.
"But it is my turn to sit in front," said Doris, smiling faintly. "We think it would be unfair to let Mr. MacCammon sit alone when he is driving us. And Rosalie and I always have each other, you know."
So the bishop had to help her into the car—MacCammon's car—and into the front seat with MacCammon himself, and the bishop had to stand on the curb while they drove off. No wonder MacCammon was whistling softly to himself. With Doris out of the question, the bishop was a nice enough fellow, clean, clear-cut, straightforward—but with Doris in the question he was an eternal nuisance and a bore. And MacCammon could never get Doris out of his questions any more.
"Will you come up?" she asked as they drew up beside the apartment.
"Not to-night," he said softly. "But thank you for asking." She had not asked the bishop. "To-night you girls must run straight to bed and rest, and I will come for you to go with me in the morning. No, you must not try to cook until the operation is over. I will eat with you after that to even up. I know a grand place for hot cakes and sirup—very close. Good night, Rosalie, you are a good little scout," he called, as she started up the stairs. Then he drew Doris into a shadowy corner and said, "You must not worry, Doris. Rosalie is taking this better than you are. Hasn't your religion taught you that things work out just right for—men—like your father—who are whole-souled and pure-minded?"
"Christians, you mean," said Doris, smiling at his evident desire to avoid the tone of preaching. "Yes, I know. I do believe that things will come right eventually, and I do not worry—much. But father is too good to suffer, and be hurt. It should have been some one else."
"Oh, Doris, don't you know that your father will have more tenderness and more gentleness for all sickness and all suffering, after he himself has suffered? Before this, he has spoken kindness. Now he will live it. It takes the ultimate caress of pain to give us understanding."
Doris moved her hands softly in his.