go.  If it was down the road of renunciation of a life-long enmity, he would not break his word.  Complex problems resolve themselves at the point of action into such simple axioms.  Dick should have a blessing and his sweetheart; he would do his best for Fairfax Preston; with his might he would keep his word.  A great sigh and a wrench at his heart as if a physical growth of years were tearing away, and the decision was made.  Then, in a mist of pain and effort, and a surprised new freedom from the accustomed pang of hatred, he heard the rustle and movement of a kneeling congregation, and, as he looked, the Bishop raised his arms.  Fielding bent his gray head quickly in his hands, and over it, laden with “peace” and “the blessing of God Almighty,” as if a general commended his soldier on the field of battle, swept the solemn words of the benediction.

Peace touched the earth on the blue and white September day when Madge and Dick were married.  Pearly piled-up clouds, white “herded elephants,” lay still against a sparkling sky, and the air was alive like cool wine, and breathing warm breaths of sunlight.  No wedding was ever gayer or prettier, from the moment when the smiling holiday crowd in little Saint Peter’s caught their breath at the first notes of “Lohengrin” and turned to see Eleanor, white-clad and solemn, and impressed with responsibility, lead the procession slowly up the aisle, her eyes raised to the Bishop’s calm face in the chancel, to the moment when, in showers of rice and laughter and slippers, the Fielding carriage dashed down the driveway, and Dick, leaning out, caught for a last picture of his wedding-day, standing apart from the bright colors grouped on the lawn, the black and white of the Bishop and Eleanor, gazing after them, hand in hand.

Bit by bit the brilliant kaleidoscopic effect fell apart and resolved itself into light groups against the dark foliage or flashing masses of carriages and people and horses, and then even the blurs on the distance were gone, and the place was still and the wedding was over.  The long afternoon was before them, with its restless emptiness, as if the bride and groom had taken all the reason for life with them.

There were bridesmaids and ushers staying at the Fieldings’.  The graceful girl who poured out the Bishop’s tea on the piazza, some hours later, and brought it to him with her own hands, stared a little at his face for a moment.

“You look tired, Bishop.  Is it hard work marrying people?  But you must be used to it after all these years,” and her blue eyes fell gently on his gray hair.  “So many love-stories you have finished—­so many, many!” she went on, and then quite softly, “and yet never to have a love-story of your own!”

At this instant Eleanor, lolling on the arm of his chair, slipped over on his knee and burrowed against his coat a big pink bow that tied her hair.  The Bishop’s arm tightened around the warm, alive lump of white muslin, and he lifted his face, where lines showed plainly to-day, with a smile like sunshine.