The star. (Reynoldsville, Pa.) 1892-1946, 1908-10-14
THE BISHOP AND THE BABY.
By wINIFRED M. KIRKLAND.

thing. He should never get used to
doing without her. Five years since
she had gone, and he seemed only to
miss her more.
The train was stopping again. On
the platform just outside the bishops
window stood rugged old man, muf-
fled up to the ears, peering into the
car. The stolid little girl in the seat
in front jumped up, shouting, Grand
pa. grandpa, grandpa!" The bishop
tried to wave her good-by, but she
did not see him; she was buried in
the little old mans embrace.
There had been time when the
bishop had thought child's voice
would. some day call him grandpa"
but the little lips had been cold be-
fore he could kiss them. Sometimes,
as he travelled, the bishop would fancy
that all on the car were going toward
their own kin, going to be welcomed
by children, parents, sisters, brothers
all but him. Every day for him
there was the shaking of strange
hands, the speaking to strange faces.
The bishop heard his station called.
and rose stiffly.
Il miss the little girl today" he
said to himself. I'm afraid I'm lit
tie tired for visiting"
The brakeman sprang to carry the
bishops bag. People always helped
the bishop. Every stranger was his
friend. Perhaps it was because of
| the infirm stoop of the shoulders un-
der the old cape overcoat; perhaps it
| was his sweet, absent-minded eyes;
| perhaps it was his smile, the smile of
| a little child on the lips of an old man.
The rector had gone to funeral off
on the bleak hills, and so old Daniel
| Springer met the bishop at the train,
| and escorted him to the rectory, shut.
| fling away at the door, however, not
| accepting Doris's invitation to enter.
He left the bishop staring in sur
prise. From the gray outside world
the door had opened on picture that
| caused him, poet and artist as he was,
a keen delight. This was hardly the
minister's wife he had expected, this
girl with the rosy baby on her arm
slender girl in black, knot of old
lace at her throat, with rich, dark col
or, great brown eyes, brown braids
piled high on her head, vivid, parted
| lips, which showed still an expression
wistful and appealing. Just so the
little girls lips had looked when he
| had come back to her after long alb
| sence.
A rich Southern voice was bidding
| him welcome. All Doris's shyness was
| gone. She led the bishop to the roar
| ing wood stove in the little room that
| in the winter was dining-room and
| parlor both in one. The baby was
tumbled on the floor. Doris was help
ing the bishop off with his overcoat,
| pushing footstool to his feet The
| kettle could be heard singing in the
kitchen. In an instant cup of steam
| ing tea was ready. This drunk, the
baby would no longer be disregarded.
The bishop lifted him to his knee.
They danced and trotted and patty
| caked" and went to Banbury Cross.
Then the baby settled to long and
silent scrutiny of the bishops watch,
| only now and then lifting his head for
| smile of sympathetic understanding
from the bishop It was all very COM
| Portable. Doris drew her little low
rocker up to the bishops knee and
began to darn a little sock.
"Ga-ga-ga-gal" gurgled the baby.
"He is saying grandpa" said Doris.
And then she never knew how it hap
pened that she told it all to the bish-
op, all that she had previously told
only to the baby. Afterward she was
surprised at herself, but the bishop
| had long ceased to be surprised that
people should tell him many things on
brief acquaintance. He thought it
one of the beautiful compensations
sent him for his loneliness.
I'm the youngest" Doris told him.
'Tm twenty-five. Mother died when
was little, and l was the last one left
home with pa
The bishop knew the names of all
the sisters and brothers, of all the
darkies on the place, too.-even of all
| the horses,-and understood all the
| free, happy-go-lucky life.
People are so different up here!"
Doris was saying.
Then the bishop spoke for q little
while. He told her how well lie had
known the South in his youth, but how
we'll he had come to know these peo-
pie of the North, too, in going about
among them for forty years. They
were stern, he admitted, slow to ac-
cept strangers; but their hears once
found, were stanch and tender in
beautiful, surprising ways.
And you will surely find their
hearts some day." he said. "And once
found, you'll never lose them or for
get"
Doris, listening, tried to believe and
understand and gather courage. But
the bishop, while he talked, was think
ing of the harshness of her transplant
ing, and of pa" sitting on the piazza
sweet with honeysuckle. looking north,
another old man longing for his little