He took the envelope which somehow reminded him of the yellow flames of his fire and seemed reaching out to grasp him. With a murmured prayer he tore it open. It was a message from the Bishop. The words were few, but only too easily understood by the priest who sought obscurity:
"Forgive me, my friend. I had not the heart to tell you the truth. I need you now, and then, perhaps, those greater than I. You may stay but a very little while. Come to me immediately after Christmas."
The flame-colored message went to its kind amid the great logs of the fireplace. Father Murray picked up his book again, turned its pages, and read softly to himself:
"Ah! is Thy love indeed
A weed, albeit an amaranthine weed,
Suffering no flowers except its own to mount?
Ah! must—
Designer Infinite—
Ah! must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn with it?"