“Henry!”
The Bishop opened vague eyes.
“I can’t let you look like that, Henry, to-day!”
The Bishop smiled, “I’m a bit tired. I’ve just remembered it. You had made me forget it, as usual, made me forget both the tiredness and some other things. They come back upon me now. I’ve had a rather rough morning of it, to tell the truth.”
“Tell me about it,” she said, sitting down.
“I’ve been hearing things I didn’t want to hear, and believing things I didn’t want to believe, and trying to do things I couldn’t do, all morning. It seems a pretty long time since to-day began. Oh, I was going to do great things to-day when I got up!”
“But the day is not over.”
“That is just it,” he answered. “My day is over!”
“No, no, it must never be over! You must never speak like that! Why even I—” she broke off, “but you, Henry! Who were always such a boy for hoping! You mustn’t stop; I’ll never let you!”
He looked at her with a grave, far gaze, “It would be a Christmas gift that I need, Lucy, if to-day you gave me hope. You are the only person who can!”