On the afternoon of the Sabbath the two bishops strolled across the park, and almost unconsciously found themselves in front of the farmhouse.  Little Tom sat on the front steps with a sad countenance; looking up he recognized Bishop Albertson standing before him.

“Well, Tom, how is Carl today?” asked the bishop.

“O, Bishop, he is very bad.  He talks and talks, and they don’t know what he means.  He talks about his father and mother, and nobody knows where they live.  He never told anybody.  But I’m praying for him, Bishop, and I know he won’t die.”

“Can we go up and see him?” asked Bishop Albertson, and without waiting for an answer, he proceeded up the back stairs, but the English visitor remained below.

When Bishop Albertson entered the room he found Nancy bathing the sick youth’s brow.  She saluted the visitor with great respect.  Carl lay quite still with his face toward the wall.  Laying her hand upon his brow, Nancy said:  “Carl, dear, here’s the bishop come over to see you.”

The sick man murmured:  “No, no, he will never come to see me, but mother would if she knew.”

The bishop in low, quiet tones said:  “Carl, where is your father?  We will let him know how ill you are, and I know he will come to you.”

In still weaker accents the delirious youth went on:  “No, no, don’t tell him; he thinks I’m dead; better so.”

At this moment Dr. King, making his second call for the day, stepped into the room, and at once in low but emphatic tones remarked:  “Mrs. Sparrow, this will not do.  Our patient must be kept quiet; otherwise more harm can be done in a half hour than can be overcome in a week.  I will send a nurse tonight, and with skillful nursing we will, if possible, save the patient.”

The bishop took the hint and quietly descended to the parlor, where he found his colleague awaiting him with his head resting upon both hands.  Silently they wended their way to the bishop’s study.  It lacked about an hour to the time of evening service.

The visiting clergyman, addressing his host said:  “Bishop Albertson, I think I have never told you the particulars of my great affliction.  The illness of your secretary, and seeing the specimen of his penmanship, brings back to my recollection the darkest providence that has ever come into my life.”

“No, Bishop,” said his brother minister, kindly, “you have not.  But sorrow passes few of us by in this world.  We all suffer, some grievously.  I did not suspect, however, that such had been your lot.”

“Yes,” was the reply, after a moment’s silence, “mine has been a heavy cross.  A little more than a year ago my son, just entering upon the summer vacation, went off with two friends on a yachting trip.  They were near Land’s End when a hurricane struck and wrecked the boat; they were all lost, the yacht never having been seen again; and once this afternoon, when the door of your secretary’s room was opened for a moment, I heard his delirious cry, and his voice sounded strangely like that of my own lost boy.  Possibly, I, too, should have gone up to see him, but after that I could not—­I could not.”  He paused and then added:  “O, it was my profoundest wish that Eddie might some day take my place, and be the comfort of my old age.”