“The service?” he inquired anxiously.
“It was not Christmas without your sermon. Otherwise it was—well, a service. For we missed our rector, too!”
“He is ill.”
“Is he?” inquired Lucy with musing emphasis. “And of what sickness? Too much Westbury?”
But at the Bishop’s troubled glance her tone changed instantly, “But you yourself, Henry, have you been, are you, ill?”
“Not now, not here. It is really Christmas here.”
“I am glad,” she answered; then, with an unperceived catch of her breath, “if it is really Christmas—here!”
“How many Christmas dinners is it, Lucy?”
“I do not count them,” to herself she added, looking at him, “those that are over!”
They fell to talking of the Christmases that were over. The Bishop did not know that from time to time he leaned his head back, closing his lids, and was silent while minutes ticked slowly and Lucy watched him intently. It was comforting when he opened his eyes still to see her sitting there, so alert, so alive.