“And I am to understand that your will is made out to me, with no instructions as to the use of the money?”
“Yes.”
“Does anyone know of your desire for the settlement house?”
“No one. You were the only one who needed to know.”
Newbold looked straight at his visitor. “Has it occurred to you, Bishop, that you are taking a great risk?”
“What do you mean, lad?” asked the Bishop wonderingly.
Newbold laughed, a laugh that rang true with honest amusement. “Well, hardly, as we both know, that I should make way with the money for my own ends, or that one cent of it shall be spent except for the object of your desire, but,—” his face grew grave and dark, “you imply, I think, something more. It is not merely the money that you leave in my charge, Bishop, but the work itself?”
“I had always hoped, lad, to leave my work in your charge. In spirit, if not in actuality.”
“Do you hope so this morning?”
“May I hope so, Murray?” Once before, on the night of his ordination, the Bishop had called Newbold by his first name.