They returned to their hotel, exhausted, yet excited, by the heat; and Mrs. Valentin admonished herself of what our boys must be suffering in that "unimaginable climate," and she entered into details, forgetting to spare Elsie, till the girl turned a sickly white.
It was then the bishop's card was sent up—their own late bishop, much mourned and deplored because he had been transferred to an Eastern diocese. There could be no one so invariably welcome, who knew so well, without effort, how to touch the right chord, whether in earnest or in jest that sometimes hid a deeper earnest. His manner at first usually hovered between the two, your own mood determining where the emphasis should rest. He had brought with him the evening paper, but he kept it folded in his hand.
"So you are pilgrims to Mecca," he said, looking from mother to daughter with his gentle, musing smile. "But are you not a little early for the Eastern schools?"
"There are the home visits first, and the clothes," said Mrs. Valentin.
"And where do you stop, and for how long?"
"Boston, for one year, Bishop, and then we go abroad for a year, perhaps."
"Bless me! what has Elsie done that she should be banished from home for two years?"
"She takes her mother with her."
"Yes; that is half of the home. Perhaps that's as much as one girl ought to expect."
"The fathers are so busy, Bishop."