The service at the parish church Sunday morning was largely attended. Word had spread rapidly that the Bishop would arrive during the week, and it was confidently expected that the parson would touch on the question from the pulpit.

"Guess we'll git something to-day," one man remarked to another, near the church door.

"Y'bet," was the brief response.

"D'ye think the parson will say anything about old Billy?"

"Mebbe he will, an' mebbe he won't."

"But I think he will. The parson likes to hit from the pulpit when no one kin hit back."

"Is that what brought you to church to-day? You seldom darken the door."

"Sure! What else should I come fer? I'm not like you, Bill Flanders, wearin' out me shoes paddin' to church every Sunday. I kin be jist as good a Christian an' stay at home. I kin read me Bible an' say me prayers there."

"I'm not denying that, Bill, but the question is, Do ye? I reckon ye never open yer Bible or say yer prayers either fer that matter. If you were in the habit of doin' so you never would hev signed that petition to the Bishop."

"Well, I'm not alone in that. There's Farrington, a church member an' a communicant, who headed the list, an' if he----"

"Hold, right there, Bill. Farrington never signed that paper."

"Yes, he did."

"But, I say, he didn't. He promised to do so, but jist after he sent it away he made a fuss an' said that he had fergotten to do it."

"Ye don't say so!" and Bill's eyes opened wide with surprise. "But are ye sure?"

"Sartin. I had it from Tom Fletcher himself, who feels rather sore about it. It is well known that Farrington wanted the parson removed on the plea of old age, but didn't want that clause in about Billy's death. The Fletchers insisted, however, an' in it went."

"The devil! Well, it's queer, I do declare."

Just then the bell rang out its last call, and they entered the church with others.

Parson John looked greyer than usual as he conducted the service and stood at the lectern to read the Lessons. But his voice was as sweet and musical as ever, though now a note of pathos could be detected. His step was slow and feeble as he mounted the pulpit, and a yearning look came into his face as he glanced over the rows of heads before him.

"Remember my bonds," was the text he took this morning, and without a note to guide him, he looked into the numerous faces, and delivered his brief message. A breathless silence pervaded the sanctuary as he proceeded to draw a picture of St. Paul, the great champion of the faith, in his old age enduring affliction, and appealing to his flock to remember his bonds. The arm of the parson still in the sling, and the knowledge the people had of the reports circulated about him, added much to the intense impressiveness of the scene. For about fifteen minutes he spoke in a clear, steady voice. Then his right hand clutched the top of the pulpit, while his voice sank and faltered. "Brethren," he said, straightening himself up with an effort, "St. Paul had his bonds, which were hard for him to bear; the bond of suffering, the bond of loneliness, and the bond of old age. You, too, have bonds, and will have them. But how sweet to know that your friends and loved ones will remember your bonds, will understand your sufferings, peculiarities, and will sympathize with you, and be considerate. I, too, have bonds: the bond of unfitness for my great work, and the bond of old age. These two shackle and impede me in the Master's cause. But I ask you to think not so much of these as of another which binds me soul and body--it is the bond of love. I look into your faces this morning, and think of the many years I have laboured among you in evil report and good report. I have learned to love you, and now that love is my greatest bond, for it enwraps my very heart. When parents see their darling child turn against them, their love to him is the hardest bond to bear, because they cannot sever it. They remember him as a babe in arms, as a little, clinging, prattling child. They think of what they have done and suffered for his sake and how the cord of love has been silently woven through the years. My love to you is my greatest bond, and, though some may grow cold, some may scoff, and some repudiate, never let the lips of any say that your rector, your old grey-headed pastor, now in his fourth and last watch, ever ceased in his love to his little flock."

There was a diversity of opinion among the listeners to these pathetic words, which was quite noticeable as the congregation filed out of the church. The eyes of some were red, showing the intensity of their emotion, while others shone with a scornful light.

"The parson fairly upset me to-day!" blurted out one burly fellow. "I heven't been so moved sense the day I laid me old mother to rest in the graveyard over yonder."

"Upset, did ye say?" replied another, turning suddenly upon him. "What was there to upset ye in that?"

"Why, the way the parson spoke and looked."

"Umph! He was only acting his part. He was trying to work upon our feelings, that was all. Ah, he is a cute one, that. Did ye hear what he said about the bond of love? Ha, ha! That's a good joke."

There was one, however, who felt the words more deeply than all the others. This was Nellie, who sat straight upright in her pew, and watched her father's every movement. She did not shed a tear, but her hands were firmly clasped in her lap and her face was as pale as death. As soon as the service was over she hurried into the vestry, helped her father off with his robes, and then supported his feeble steps back to the Rectory. She made no reference to the sermon, but endeavoured to divert her father's mind into a different channel. She set about preparing their light midday repast, talked and chatted at the table, and exhibited none of the heaviness which pressed upon her heart. Only after she had coaxed her father to lie down, and knew that he had passed into a gentle sleep, did she give way to her pent-up feelings. How her heart did ache as she sat there alone in the room, and thought of her father standing in the pulpit uttering those pathetic words.

Thursday, the day of the investigation, dawned bright and clear. Not a breath of wind stirred the air. It was one of those balmy spring days when it is good to be out-of-doors drinking in freshness and strength.

The Bishop had arrived the night before, and had taken up his abode at the Rectory. About ten o'clock the following morning, he wended his way to the church, there to await the people of Glendow. Some time elapsed before any arrived, and not until the afternoon did most of them come. Tom Fletcher was among the first, and at once he made his way into the vestry, and confronted the Bishop.

The latter was a small-sized man, clean shaven, and with his head adorned with a mass of white, wavy hair. His face and massive forehead bore the stamp of deep intellectuality. He was noted as a writer of no mean order, having produced several works dealing with church questions, full of valuable historic research. His every movement bespoke a man of great activity and devotion in his high office. His eyes were keen and searching, while his voice was sharp and piercing. "Sharp as a razor," said several of his careless clergy. Merciless and scathing in reference to all guile, sham and hypocrisy, he was also a man of intense feeling, sympathetic, warm-hearted, and a friend well worth having.

He was poring over certain church registers as Tom Fletcher entered, and, glancing quickly up, noted at once the man standing before him. He rose to his feet, reached out his hand to Fletcher and motioned him to a chair.

"Fletcher is your name, you say--Tom Fletcher," and the Bishop ran his eyes over several lists of names before him.

"Yes, sir, that's my name."

"You signed the petition, I see."

"Yes." "Well, then, you must know about these charges which are made against your rector. Now, as regards the first. It states here that he is neglecting certain parts of the parish. Is that true?"

"I understand so."

"Where?"

"Oh, I hear he hasn't been to Hazel Greek an' Landsdown Corner fer over two years."

"Any other place?"

"No, I guess them's the only two, but it seems to me to be a purty serious matter fer sich places to be neglected so long."

"Ah, I see," and the Bishop looked keenly into Tom's face.

"You're not a vestryman, Mr. Fletcher?" he remarked.

"No, never was one."

"Did you ever attend an Easter Monday meeting?"

"No, never had time."

"Do you take a church paper?"

"Should say not. Much as I kin do is to pay fer the newspaper."

"But, of course, you read the Synod Journal, which is freely distributed. It contains each year a report from this parish."

"Yes, I read it sometimes, but there isn't much to interest me in that."

"But surely, Mr. Fletcher, you must have read there that Hazel Creek and Landsdown Corner were cut off from Glendow over two years ago, and added to the adjoining parish, and are now served by the rector of Tinsborough. They are more accessible to him, and the change has been a good one."

"What! Ye don't tell me!" and Tom's eyes opened wide with surprise. "I never knew that before. The parson never said a word about it."

"Did you ever ask him? Or did you inquire why he never went to those places?"

"No. I thought----"

"I don't want to know what you thought," and the Bishop turned sharply upon him. "Explanations are not needed now. You have proven conclusively that you know nothing about the church affairs in this parish, and care less. According to these registers I find that you never come to Communion and never contribute one cent to the support of the church. But we will let that pass, and consider the next charge made here."

"What, about Uncle Billy?"

"Yes. You know the charge made, and as you signed the petition you must have some substantial proof to bring forth."

Tom twisted uneasily on the chair and twirled his hat in his hands. He was mad at the way the Bishop had cornered him, and at what he had said. But he was also afraid of this man who knew so much and seemed to read his inmost thoughts. He began to dread the questions which he knew would come, and longed to be out of the vestry. He was not feeling so sure of himself and wished he had stayed away.

"The second charge made here," continued the Bishop, "is of a most serious nature. It is to the effect that your rector stole the gold from William Fletcher the night the house was burned, and used some of it to buy a farm. Is that what it means?"

"I--I--don't know," Tom stammered, now on his guard, and not wishing to commit himself.

"But you should know," the Bishop insisted. "You signed the paper, and I ask you what it means, then?"

"The gold is gone, sir, an' the parson was the only one there with Uncle Billy. Besides, where did he git all of that money?"

"But that's no proof. I want facts, and I expect you to give me some."

"That's all I know," was the surly response.

"And upon the strength of that suspicion you signed this paper?"

"Yes."

"And you would swear that you know nothing definite?"

"Y--yes--that's all I know."

The Bishop remained silent for a short time, musing deeply.

"Do you know," he at length remarked, "that you have put yourself in a very awkward position?"

"How's that?"

"You have virtually said that Mr. Westmore stole that gold. If you cannot prove your statements you have laid yourself open to prosecution for defamation of character. Your rector, if he wished, could bring in a charge against you of a most serious nature."

"I never thought of that."

"No, I know you didn't. You may go now, but remember the position in which you have placed yourself."

Tom waited to hear no more. He fairly sprang to the door, his face dark and frightened. He spoke to no one, neither did he notice the sturdy form of Mrs. Stickles standing there waiting to be admitted into the vestry.

The Bishop looked up as the door opened and Mrs. Stickles entered. She always proved the dominating factor wherever she went, and what her size could not accomplish was well supplied by her marvellous tongue. The Bishop winced as she seized his hand in a vise-like grip.

"It's real glad I am to set me eyes on ye," she exclaimed. "I heven't seen ye in a dog's age, an' I'm mighty pleased ye look so well. How did ye leave the missus, bless her dear heart? My, I'm all het up, the church is so hot," and she bounced down upon the chair Fletcher had recently vacated.

The Bishop's eyes twinkled, and his care-worn face brightened perceptibly. His exalted position made him a lonely man. There was so much deference paid to him. People as a rule were so reserved in his presence, and showed a longing to be away. "Many people desire a high office," he had once said, "but very few realize the responsibility and loneliness it entails. So much is expected of a Bishop, and his slightest words and acts are criticized. I often envy humble workmen, smoking and chatting together. They have many things in common. They may say what they like, and much heed is not given to their remarks."

It was therefore most refreshing to have this big-hearted woman seated before him acting and talking so naturally, without the least restraint, the same as if she were in her own house.

"You have come, I suppose," said the Bishop, "in connection with this petition," and he pointed to the paper lying on the table.

"Oh, that's the thing, is it?" asked Mrs. Stickles, as she leaned forward to get a better view. "Be very keerful of it, Mr. Bishop. Don't scratch it or bring it too close to the fire."

"Why, what do you mean?" asked the Bishop.

"What do I mean? Don't ye know that's the work of the devil, an' there's enough brimstone in that paper to burn us up in a jiffy. It's soaked through an' through, so I advise ye to handle it keerful."

"So you think these charges in this petition are not true? What can you say to the contrary, then?"

"What kin I say to be contrary? I kin say a good deal, an', indeed, I hev said a good deal. When I heered about that pertition my buzum jist swelled like the tail of an old cat when a hull bunch of yelpin' curs git after her. But I didn't sit down an' weep an' wring me hands. No, sir, not a bit of it. Me an' Sammy went to them in authority, an' sez I to them church-wardens, sez I, 'will ye let that old parson, the Lord's anointed, be imposed upon by them villains?'"

"'What kin we do?' sez they.

"'Do!' sez I.' Do what the Lord intended ye to do, fight. Didn't the Holy Apostle say, 'Quit ye like men, be strong?' 'Git up a pertition,' sez I, 'an' git every decent, honest man in Glendow to sign it, an' send it to the Bishop. Tell 'im?' sez I,' that the parson isn't neglectin' his parish an' that yez hev full confidence in 'im.'

"'We don't like to do it,' sez they.

"'Why not?' sez I.

"'We don't like to stir up strife,' sez they. ''Tisn't good to hev a disturbance in the church. We're men of peace.'

"'Peace,' sez I, 'an' let the devil win? That's not the trouble. Yer afeered, that's what's the matter. Yer too weak-kneed, an' hain't got as much backbone as an angle worm.' That's what I said to 'em, right out straight, too. Now kin ye tell me, Mr. Bishop, why the Lord made some people men instead of makin' 'em chickens fer all the spunk they've got?"

"But, Mrs. Stickles," replied the Bishop, who had been staring in amazement at the torrent of words, "what has this to do with the question before us?"

"I'm comin' to that, sir, only I wanted to tell ye my persition. When I found that them in authority wouldn't make the start, I concluded that the Lord meant me to do the work. So me an' Sammy an' our old horse Queen travelled up an' down the parish fer three solid days, with this result," and, drawing a paper from a capacious pocket, she laid it on the table. "Thar 'tis, read it fer yerself, an' jedge."

The Bishop's eyes grew a little misty as he read the words written there, and noted the long list of names testifying to the worthiness of the rector of Glendow.

"Mrs. Stickles," he at length remarked, and his voice was somewhat husky, "the Lord will reward you for what you have done. While others have been simply talking, you have been acting. Like that woman of old, you have done what you could, and this deed of love, believe me, will be remembered in the parish of Glendow for generations to come. You may go now; you have done your part."

Chapter XXI