The bishop took the boy’s hands and stared up at him, and stared—and yet stared. And the boy turned a slow red, but stood quiet. “Why, it’s plain,” the bishop said. “Your father’s size, but your mother’s son. Her son.”
The lad’s face lit. “Why, bishop—you knew her?”
The bishop still questioned the bright face with his close gaze.
“I don’t remember my father,” the young fellow said. “He died when I was a year old—they say I’m built like him. But this is my mother’s”—he put his hand through his thick, straight, very light hair. “I’m mostly like her, I think.”
“She is alive?” the bishop asked.
“Oh, yes—bless her,” the boy beamed. “But I’ve had to leave her in England.” He hesitated. “I can tell you anything, bishop. We’re poor—I’ve come over to make money, and then she’ll come. She wants to live in America. I must get to work. I’m anxious to work—I’m in a hurry to get my mother.”
“‘Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace,’” remarked the bishop.
The boy looked dazed—almost smiled. The bishop was not at all solemn or what is called religious; he had the air of stating something which gratified him.
“Sit down,” he ordered. “I’ve a great deal to say to you.” He broke off and stared once more at the straight-featured, glowing young face. “It’s just the sort of boy I like,” he considered out loud, and “it” looked astonished and reddened, and laughed and looked pleased, but the older man did not notice. With preoccupied movements he filled his pipe and packed it, and lighted it and drew a puff, as if his soul were on it, the boy meantime bursting with wonder. “A great many things to say to you. How old are you?”
“Twenty-four.” A moment’s silence.