A POSTSCRIPT. MR. AND MRS. ATHELSTAN TAYLOR. MR. AND MRS. BROWNRIGG. ODDS AND ENDS OF SEQUELS. THE DREAM VANISHES, READABLE BITS AND ALL!

"It's a magnificent match, and she'll make a perfect Duchess," said the Reverend Athelstan Taylor a twelvemonth later—only six months ago at this present time of writing. "And Thyringia will make a perfect dowager. But the old Duke may live to see a grandchild or two. Doesn't do to count one's coronets before they're hatched—eh, Addie?"

"I do wish, Yorick dearest, you would be a little less secretive, and tell me what she really said that time."

"I have told you, sweetheart, all there was to tell. I haven't been keeping anything back."

"Never mind! Tell it again."

"Well—it was just like this." He dropped his voice to sadness, as in deference to something sad outside the matter of his speech. "I had just come from reading the service over poor Jim and...."

"Darling little Lizarann! Oh, Yorick, I don't believe I shall ever love my own child as...." The speaker could not utter another word; and, indeed, her tears were not the only ones that had to be got clear of before the Rector could proceed. In time he got on with his twice-told tale; but their subjugation overlapped his words that followed:

"Well—it was then! I dare say the young woman didn't mean to be supercilious and provoking, but she was. Why couldn't she leave the funeral alone? She hadn't come to it, and no one had asked her to do so...."

"I don't believe there were half-a-dozen people in the village that didn't."

"Very likely not. But I wasn't going to take her to task for it. She began. Talked of it as if it had been a public meeting! Had heard there was quite a large gathering at Blind Jim's funeral. 'You were not there,' said I, simply as a matter of fact. But I suppose she felt there was a cap that fitted, for she said: 'I thought you would think the family quite sufficiently represented by my father and mother.' I answered—and I dare say my manner was rather irritable—'I wasn't counting heads, Judith.' She said, with a disagreeable shrewdness: 'But you noticed my absence?' 'If you ask me,' said I, 'I did notice it; and of all your family, I think, under the circumstances, your presence was the one most called for.' She replied, with that exasperating placidity she is such a mistress of: 'Possibly some persons acquainted with the whole story might have thought a parade of emotion uncalled for on my part.' I said, rather angrily: 'No one expects a parade of emotion from you, but only the common debt all are ready to pay to the memory of a fellow-creature tragically killed—especially those who have had any share, however indirect, in his death! She replied: 'I don't think we need make any pretences. You know as well as I do what share this man had in frustrating an object I had at heart; and at least you cannot expect me to be grateful to him?'"

"You were alone, then?"

"Yes—her mother had gone on in front. My answer to her was substantially that, if she knew what I knew, she would think poor Jim a benefactor, instead of bearing a grudge against him. 'What do you mean?' said she. 'Please don't be enigmatical.' I then told her bluntly what her position would have been had her proposed marriage with Challis been put into practice—been acted on. I told her of the legalism under which the validity of Challis's marriage with Marianne would stand or fall, according as his previous marriage was void or otherwise; and that it was void, as his first wife's husband was living when he married her. I must say I admired her self-possession when she heard what a precipice she had been on the edge of...."

"What did she say?"

"She paused in her walk with a sort of 'what-next-I-wonder?' look on her face, and a slight 'oh—really!' movement of the head. Then she walked on again, as before; merely saying, as coolly as if she were talking of a new dress—more coolly—'The marriage laws are too funny for words.'"

"What did you say?"

"I said they were; feeling free to do so with dear Gus at Tunis. But I saw that she was perfectly well aware what a narrow escape she had had. However, she'll forget all about it when she's a Duchess. It's a pity he's so much younger than she is."

"Will the Challises ever know Marianne was his wife all along?"

"I hope not. It would break Marianne's heart. Her belief in her sister would be shaken. Now they're so happy together again it would be a grievous pity she should know anything about it. She's quite content with the retrospective working of the new Statute. Enough is as good as a feast...."

This was not the end of the conversation. But the story sees that it was to blame for not telling some more of the antecedent circumstances that had made it possible, and now hastens to make good the deficit. The Rector can wait.

Bishop Barham had been as good as his word. He allowed a reasonable time to elapse after the passing of the Act legalizing marriage with a Deceased Wife's Sister, and then towards Christmas addressed a letter of paternal remonstrance to the Rector of Royd, "pointing out" some contingent effects of the Act which it was his duty, as that reverend gentleman's Diocesan, to lay stress upon in the interests of public decorum, as the slightest laxity in such a matter might have an injurious influence on the morality of clergy and laity alike. He was not suggesting for one moment that any infraction of moral law whatever was contemplated, or was even conceivable, in the present case. But a well-defined rule of life had to be observed by persons on whose part the slightest deviation from the strict observance of an enjoined conformity may act injuriously on the community. Here the prelude ended, and the Bishop came to the scratch. He could not shut his eyes to the fact that the Rev. Athelstan's household consisted only—children apart—of himself and a lady, the sister of his deceased wife. Since the recent lamentable decision of the Legislature to remove all legal restriction on marriages of persons so related, thus placing the Canon Law of the Church at variance with the Law of the Land, there would be no doubt that Mr. Taylor's domestic arrangements laid him open to censure, and might easily give rise to a serious public scandal. There was no doubt they transgressed the general rule which decides that persons marriageable but not married shall not be domiciled alone together, however circumspect their conduct may be. The Bishop contrived to hint that it was impossible to say where youth and susceptibility ended, and a grouty and untempting elderliness began, and that on this account especially his remarks applied in this case. Aunt Bessy was palpably neither Lalage nor Doris, but the principle held good all the same. He therefore, et cetera.

The Rev. Athelstan bit his lip and flushed angrily as he read the gratuitous insult to Aunt Bessy, who, although prim and intensely conservative, was not yet thirty-eight—for the two things are compatible—and immediately wrote as follows in answer to the Bishop:

"My Lord,

"I can only interpret your letter as enjoining upon me one of two courses. Either my sister-in-law must reside elsewhere or become my wife. But I understand that the Canon Law of the Church still discountenances marriage with a Deceased Wife's Sister; and, further, that by a special clause of the recent Act nothing therein relieves a clergyman from any ecclesiastical censure to which he would have been liable previously for contracting such a marriage.

"If your Lordship will guarantee me against ecclesiastical censure for so doing, I will (having first ascertained Miss Caldecott's views on the subject) make arrangements for our marriage at an early date, with a view to removing the scandal you complain of.

"If your Lordship can be prevailed on to officiate at the wedding, I shall regard your doing so as the best security I can have against ecclesiastical censure hereafter."

To which the Bishop's reply was:

"Dear Mr. Taylor,

"It is my Episcopal duty to point out to you that such a marriage as you indicate, though legal, would be now, as always, contrary to the Canon Law of the Church, and in my opinion repugnant to every feeling of Christian morality. I refrain from using the adjective I am tempted to apply to it.

"But as I hold it to be consistent with my conscience as a Churchman to defer to public opinion when it coincides with my own, I am inclined to accept as well-grounded the view that households such as your present one may become the subjects of unfavourable comment, as a consequence (although the least pernicious one) of the recent Act of Parliament. I trust I have expressed clearly what I conceive to be your obvious duty alike as a Christian pastor and a member of Society.

"With regard to the concluding paragraph of your letter, I make no reply, except that in my opinion it calls for an apology.

"I am, etc.,

"Faithfully yours,

"Ignatius Nox."

The Rev. Athelstan showed both these letters of the Bishop to Adeline Fossett, his adviser in difficulties from boyhood, when that lady came to pay a visit to the Rectory a week before Christmas, when she could not come, because of leaving her mother alone. Families cohere at Christmas, as long as they are plural, and can. The cohesion of a unit is involuntary and continuous.

Now, Miss Fossett's opinions had been much modified when the debate in the Peers enlightened her about the views of the Roman Church, which—she inferred—is quite willing to marry all the sisters of the largest families successively to any bona fide widower. Possibly the Sacrament of Marriage might be refused to a man who had murdered his last wife in connection with his suit for her sister's hand. But Amor omnia vincit. Could the solemn rite be refused to him if he brought the ring in his pocket to the scaffold, and the Registrar was in attendance?

However, that has nothing to do with Adeline Fossett. She, to be brief, laughed at the Bishop's letters. The story has told how delighted she would have been to unite in marriage her two friends, whom she had long ago destined for one another, only the well-laid scheme ganged agee. And here she had the Pope and the Duke of Norfolk to back her, if consanguinity cropped up again! Clearly Yorick's destiny was to marry Aunt Bessy, and be happy. Unless he hated her, of course!

The Rector laughed his big laugh. "Oh no, I don't hate Bess!" said he. "I'm very fond of Bess—I am." And then he laughed again, and seemed immensely amused.

"Look here, Yorick! Don't be a goose. She's in the next room. Just you go in and tell her your idea, and see what she thinks. Do, dear boy! Only you mustn't be as cold as Charity, you know!"

"All right. I'll do justice to the position."

"You will?—promise!... Very good. Now, Yorick—Yorick—dear old Yorick! See what I'll do! I'll give you my blessing and God-speed!" And then she took him by both hands and kissed his face. He would have liked to return the kiss; but, then, you see, it would have impaired the elder-sister tone.

Was Adeline Fossett aware how she had put the last nail in the coffin of that little scheme, when she presumed on their mock-fraternity in that dangerous way? Why—she wasn't even his Deceased Wife's half-Sister, Marianne's relation to Challis!

She sat and listened for what she expected to go on in the next room. But it came not. As she waited there—a fair distance from the door, not to be eavesdropping—she looked more than ever as if she might have married. Her colour went and came as Hope rose and fell; and every little chance that Yorick's voice was going to be less good-humoured and genial, and come from his heart with a proper sound of love in it, made her own heart pause on a beat. But, alas!—the voices only went on as before. Oh dear!—would nothing come of it, after all?

It went on for a long time, that talk. And till half-way through that time there was hope on the face of the listener, following its sounds without distinguishing a syllable. Then the irritating bonhomie, the equable fluency of the masculine tones, the vexatious household dryness of the feminine ones, became maddening to ears that expected at least cordial warmth. Oh, if she could only enter unseen, and prompt the apathy of the speaker! She bit her lip with vexation, and found it difficult to resist the temptation to listen outright. Surely Yorick must have reached the crucial point by now! Or were they, after all, talking of something else all the while?...

There, that was emphasis, anyhow! And any evidence that the topic had been fairly broached was welcome. Only, the warmth was on the wrong side; it was Aunt Bessy's voice for one thing; and, for another, was a good deal more like indignation than affection. Now, very likely you know that, when something you cannot hear is repeated several times, it becomes audible however honourably determined you may be not to listen to it. At about the third repetition Miss Fossett, though she sincerely believed she hadn't been listening, had become aware that the phrase was, "Why can't you make her marry you herself?" and, moreover, that her own self was the one referred to. Her heart went with a bound, and her breath got caught in a gasp; and then, somehow without sense or reason, her hair had got loose and come down, and she was getting it arranged at the mirror over the chimney-piece, with the bevelled edges and the ebony frame, and trying to make out she had never begun to cry, when Yorick came back into the room, saying: "What do you think Bess says, Addie? She says if I were to ask you, you would marry me yourself." She didn't know precisely what reply she made. But she certainly had no grounds for complaining of the coldness of the Rector's reception of it.

When, five minutes later, Miss Caldecott followed her brother-in-law into the room, the lady and gentleman were still before the looking-glass, apparently very much pleased. And the latter, without taking his arm from the waist of the former, said: "I say, Bess, what a ghastly couple of fools we have been!" and broke into one of his big laughs. "Speak for yourself, Athel!" said Aunt Bessy, rather stiffly.

"I didn't mean you. I meant Addie."

"Speak for yourself, Yorick!" said Addie; and made believe to detach herself, but did not insist. Then Aunt Bessy kissed her twice on each side, and the two children, coming into the room from the garden, off an excursion, said, "What's this faw?" and seemed to think some new movement was afoot, which would probably be beneficial in the main ultimately. They accepted partial explanation, however, fuller particulars being promised in due course, and went away to have their things off.

A day or two later Aunt Bessy, being alone with the bride-elect, cleared her throat in an ominous way, as one does when one has something of importance to communicate. Miss Fossett, who in the previous twenty-four hours had twice said to the Rector, "What is the matter with Bess? I'm sure there's something brewing," became aware that she was going to be enlightened about this mystery, and waited, open-eyed. Revelation followed, conscious of importance, but sometimes at a loss for phraseology.

"I think, my dear Adeline, I may speak freely to you on a subject which nearly concerns my own happiness." Adeline pricked up her ears, and the speaker, feeling she had made a good beginning, cleared her throat again less poignantly, and continued: "When dear Athel talked that silly nonsense to me the other day ... you know what I am referring to, dear Addie?" Yes—Addie knew. "Well ... I did not then know with any certainty the sentiments entertained towards myself by...."

"By?..." said Addie, and waited.

"By a gentleman who is very slightly known to you—so slightly that, though no doubt you know him by name, you will hardly...."

Addie, suddenly apprehensive, thought in a hurry, clapping her hands to help recollection. The moment she lighted on the name that was eluding her, she pointed straight, as at a convicted delinquent. "Mr. Brownrigg," said she firmly.

Miss Caldecott excused what no accusation had been brought against. "I know," said she, "that the name is not a showy one; but the family is old, and his scientific attainments indisputable. He has recently been appointed to the Chair of Logic and Mental Philosophy in...."

"But, my dear Bess, his opinions! And why didn't you tell us?"

"His opinions, my dear, are generally misunderstood. And as to why I did not tell you, how could I, when I did not know myself? I only wish that when dear Athel...." "Took my advice and made a goose of himself—I know. I plead guilty. Yes...."

"Well—I wish I had then been able to speak with ... a ... certainty of this ... a ... possible arrangement. But it was only when I referred to the change in Athel's plans that Mr. Brownrigg...."

"But you haven't seen him since I ... since our engagement.... Oh, Bess!—you wrote off to him at once."

"I did nothing of the sort." Dignity was manifest. "I was writing to Mr. Brownrigg on quite another subject, and referred to it incidentally. It was only last night that I got his answer in reply, and I think it need be no secret that it contained an offer of marriage, very beautifully and clearly expressed. He pointed out that, however painful it might be to me to relinquish the charge of my sister's children, even to a step-mother who is already almost as much a mother to them as myself...."

"Oh, Bess dear, I will molly-cosset over Phoebe and Joan. I will, indeed!"

"You'll spoil them, Addie. But that's neither here nor there. Mr. Brownrigg went on to point out that I could now consult my own welfare and his, without any detriment to the interests of the two children." At this point Miss Caldecott became quite natural, saying: "He would never have asked me, Addie, as long as he thought I was wanted here." In which few words Miss Fossett saw more of the little drama that had been going on in the last six months than in all the rest put together.

"But his opinions, my dear, his opinions!" said she. "However will you get on with his opinions? I thought he was an Atheist, and all sorts of things."

Miss Caldecott replied that whoever had said such a thing of Mr. Brownrigg had libelled him grossly. The exact contrary was the case. No one ever approached sacred subjects in a more reverential spirit than Mr. Brownrigg. She was not qualified to repeat his elucidations of the great German Philosopher he had such an admiration for. But he had been able to point out even to her humble understanding that the question whether there was or was not a supreme Being turned entirely on the meaning of the verb to Be, which was at best a finite Human expression. Miss Caldecott scarcely did justice to all her suitor's exponency of the Identity of the Highest Atheism with the Highest Theism.

She had, however, been specially impressed with a chapter from Graubosch's "Divagationes Indagatoris," of which he had read her his translation. In this the following passage occurs: "The Thinker of the Future will do well to turn his attention to the construction of a language expressly adapted to deal with the Unknown and Infinite. At present our vocabulary is based entirely, so far as we understand it, on things within our comprehension, and even its meanings are not invariably a subject of unanimity. Until we possess such a language our efforts to grapple with the Essentially Incomprehensible must be futile, of necessity. It would be a step in the right direction if all schools of Thought could agree as to the nature of the Agency to which the Known and the Unknown, the Finite and the Infinite, are alike to be imputed. The selection of a name for this Agency has been the subject of a good deal of crude and unphilosophical discussion in ages less enlightened than the one the New School of Thought proposes to inaugurate. So much so that many nomenclatures have used more than one name for the same Person or Entity; one of the number being occasionally kept secret, as being Unpronounceable; although in this case difficulties must have arisen about divulging it. Pending agreement among the various branches and affiliated Societies of the New School as to the Nature and Extent of the Unknown; the original promoter of Causation; and the terms on which his Instigator, if any, had himself qualified for Existence, we should not discountenance, but rather sanction, the use of the vulgar terminology, such as Gott, God, Dieu, Deus, Zeus, and so on. No doubt within the near future a Lexicon or Dictionary of words and phrases applicable to things beyond our cognizance will be put in hand, and until the publication of this Thesaurus Novus we may safely discourage heated argument on subjects with which our present resources in language do not qualify us to deal. Possibly an absolute silence, and a consciousness of our own insignificance, may be the safest attitude to assume towards the Infinite, pending the issue of the volume. And during this interim, it would appear to be the safest policy to fall in with the apparent scheme of the Visible Creation; and to comply, so far as our information goes, with the Will of its Creator."

Had Miss Caldecott been able to repeat all that Mr. Brownrigg had pointed out to her, Miss Fossett would no doubt have perceived that no danger to religion or morality could possibly accrue from reasonings that had such a happy faculty of landing in the status quo.

Towards the conservation of which Miss Caldecott, as she explained to her friend, had been able to contribute. "I am sure, dear Addie," she said, "that I may rely on your rejoicing with me that I have prevailed upon Mr. Brownrigg to abstain, in the publication of this translation, from the intention he had of spelling Him and He with a little H. I mean, when reverence for established usage prohibits what he speaks of as 'lower-case type.' He at once assented to my wishes, saying that in view of the issues involved, to persist in his intention would be to pursue a—what did he call it?—'a policy of pin-pricks.' That was it."

In the sequel Mrs. Brownrigg eventuated, in the place of Miss Caldecott. And she and her husband are a happy couple at this date of writing. They have discovered a modus vivendi, and are highly satisfied with it.

That is how it was that the conversation with which this chapter opened became possible. Let it proceed:

"Do you think Sir Alfred's last book is so much worse than his others, Yorick?"

"I can't say it struck me so. If it is, it's not because of his knock on the head; because it was all written three years ago, and has been lying in a drawer. But the reviewers—he was talking about it himself yesterday evening—always take for granted that every book is the work of the last twelvemonth. He read me some of what he has just written, and it seemed all right to me. That Bob of his is a delightful boy, only too sweeping in his views. It is not true that all reviewers are asses, or that they never read the books they criticise. Bob came with him to see me off."

"How do they like Sussex Terrace?"

"Very much. At least, they will when they are settled. It's a splendid big house. I think he was glad to leave the Hermitage, for more reasons than one...."

"I know one. What were the others?"

"Which is the one you know?"

"Mrs. Eldridge."

"Yes—she was one. But I suppose the chief one was the one. Anything to get rid of what brought the story back. He has never spoken of it again to me."

"Not since that one time?"

"Yes—long ago now! When was it?—over a twelvemonth. He described how it all came back to him." The Rector extemporized a sympathetic shudder, and made an excruciated noise; both very expressive. "You see, in his oblivion, he was simply hungering for the coming of this wife he had quarrelled with, and remembering her as in her early days...."

"Oh, it was hideous! Just fancy the memory of Judith Arkroyd coming back to him!" "Yes—as he told me himself—with the arms of his wife round him whom he had been longing for! He told me all about it—how he had said to her: 'What for, Polly Anne? What am I to forgive you for?' Because, don't you see, sweetheart?..."

"Oh yes—I see."

"... Don't you see, she was crying over him, and all contrition for her own share of the business. She said to him—so he told me—'It was all my fault, love. If only I had never posted that letter!' He said, 'What letter?' and she said, 'The letter with the postscript.' And then all on a sudden he remembered everything, from the beginning. He could hardly bear to speak of it.... I've told you all this."

"Little bits come out that you haven't told. Go on!"

"He said he was afraid he should go mad, and had an idea that clinging to his wife would save him. 'I was simply,' said he, 'on fire with shame and intense terror of what I might remember next. I felt defenceless against what might be sprung on me out of the past.'"

"Did he say anything about Judith?"

"Neither of them mentioned her. That I understand. When they spoke of the motor-car, they seem by common consent to have left it a blank who was in it. He said to her: 'But the man in the road—Blind Jim—was he hurt?' And then she had to tell him of Jim's death, and the dear little thing, and he was so horror-struck that she was afraid he would slip back, and went for help. He had a very bad time—a sort of attack of delirium—and the doctor had to give him morphine."

"Did she tell him anything of Judith at the inquest—and all—and all the share she had in it, you know?"

"The inquest was next day."

"So it was. Of course! But was he ever told about her? Did you tell him?"

"Why—n-no! I rather shirked talking about it, that's the truth."

"But you told him that odd thing ... you know?"

The Rector's voice dropped. "I know what you mean. The child's voice, and 'Pi-lot.' Yes, I told him."

"Was he impressed?"

"Ye-es—well!—perhaps not exactly in that way. But he thought it very curious, and wanted me to send it to the Psychical Society."

"Shall you?"

"Hm!..." "Shan't you?"

"I think perhaps not. I don't feel quite like having it publicly discussed. I dislike being cross-examined. However, we might think about that." He said this with the manner of one who adjourns his subject, and then, as though to confirm the adjournment, went back on a previous question—the last one easily to hand. "No—she's an odd character, Judith. You know I shall always say there was something magnificent about it."

"Something detestable," said his wife. A side comment, half sotto voce.

"Well—not lovable, I admit. But fancy the girl saying what she did in the face of all that crowded room full of people—in the face of their indignation, mind you!—for no secret was made of it."

"She ought to have been ashamed of herself. What was it she said to the coroner?"

"When he had stuttered through his remonstrance or reprimand, or whatever he meant it for? Oh, she let him finish, and then said with the most absolute tranquillity—not a ruffle!—'Possibly. But I should do the same thing, under the same circumstances, I have no doubt, another time.' The poor coroner hadn't a chance. It was just like a respectable greengrocer trying to reprove Zenobia or Cleopatra."

"I shouldn't have thought so."

"I suppose that means that I'm a man?"

"That was the idea."

"It proves what I say, then—that there should always be women on juries. However, she and Rossier had a narrow escape. They might have found themselves in a very unpleasant position."

"He wept, didn't he, and sheltered himself behind mademoiselle?"

"Well, he said, 'Qu'ai-je pu faire, moi, contre mademoiselle? Que pouvez-vous faire, messieurs, vous-mÊmes?' They didn't understand him, of course, and Felixthorpe softened him down in the translating."

"Didn't the dear old Bart. try to apologize her away?"

"Yes—he tried to suggest that she saw me coming, and knew I should attend to poor Jim. But when the jury went over the ground, they saw that was utterly impossible.... Well!—she'll be a fizzing Duchess, as Bob Challis would say."

A pause followed, and then the Rector showed signs of sleepiness after a tiring day, asking whether it wasn't getting on for bedtime. And he had a right to be tired, because he had risen suddenly from dinner to go over to see old Mrs. Fox, at a summons conveyed by Jarge, the bee-tender, who had made shower the old dame was doyin'. She wasn't, and is still living, we believe. But the Rector had not got back till near ten, when he was glad of his comfortable day's-end chat with his wife. The news of Judith's engagement to the Duke's heir had come that morning, and had met him on his return from a visit to London, which he had left by an early train, after spending the previous evening at Challis's, where he stayed the night.

He paused a moment over knocking the ashes from his meerschaum, and began saying something. But he didn't get as far as a consonant. Then his wife said: "What were you going to say?"

"Don't know whether I ought to tell you this!..." said he.

"You must, now!"

"Well—you must be very, very careful not to repeat it. Challis didn't bind me over, certainly; but I know he meant confidence, all the same."

"I'll be very, very careful. Go on!"

"That old woman—the religious old horror...."

"Yorick—darling!"

"That devout old lady, then!... What about her? Why, there's some reason to suppose, apparently, that she never was respectably married at all to the first wife's father. I am speaking of the Deceased Wife's Sister's sister—Marianne's sister...."

"What a horrid old hypocrite! And she making all that rumpus about Marianne 'living in sin'!"

"Yes—but I wasn't thinking about that.... Don't you see?..."

"Don't I see what?"

"Don't you see that, if it's true, the Deceased Wife's Sister's sister wasn't born in wedlock. So—legally, at any rate—she wasn't her sister at all. Not so much as a half-sister. And she wasn't a Deceased Wife, by hypothesis. Q. E. D. So what was Kate?" Mrs. Athelstan Taylor looked perplexed—evidently thought Kate must have been hard put to it to be there at all.

"Wouldn't Dr. Barham?..." she began.

The Rector filled out the question. "What my young friend Bob calls 'make a great ass of himself'?"

"Really, Yorick, he is your Bishop! But I suppose that's the sort of thing I meant."

"My dear, he can't!"

"Why not?" "Because his Creator has anticipated him." The Rector seemed happy over this. His wife did not feel quite certain she understood it. But she was sure it was time to light her candle, and that, broadly speaking, the curtain might fall.

"It has been a strange story," said she, in a sort of generally forgiving, conclusive way.

"It has!" repeated Athelstan Taylor. "And not a pleasant one! Anyhow, it's one consolation, that it never can happen again."

FINIS