As the days passed, and the plans for the future matured, Rosalie kept shrewd eyes on her sister's face.

"She is worried about father, of course, but so are the rest of us, and we don't act like that," she thought soberly. "It can't be Mr. MacCammon, surely, for he does not try to hide what he thinks. And anybody can see what she feels toward him—anybody but Mr. MacCammon, for he really is fussed about the bishop." And Rosalie laughed gleefully, for she solemnly believed that no lover had any right to win his heart's desire without a few sharp pangs of jealousy.

Doris was pale and gentle to an unwonted degree, but she shirked no whit of her responsibility. She arranged with the president of the college for filling the pulpit during her father's absence, and he acceded to her request with hearty good will.

"If I can't get anybody else, I'll do it myself. So get that off your mind right away. As a matter of fact, I have quite a few things I'd like to tell the people in this town, but I never had the courage to do it with your father's kindly eyes upon me. But with him out of the road, I surely will relieve my feelings."

Miss Carlton promised not only freely, but fulsomely, to come and chaperon the younger girls during the week the others were in Chicago. And Mr. Artman was argued into accepting their friend's kindly offer in a way that was scientific to the highest degree.

On the morning he took train for Chicago Doris and Rosalie, with their shabby bags, were tucked into MacCammon's car among his portfolios and manuscripts. Curiously enough, Doris insisted on sitting in the back seat alone.

"Please," she said, when MacCammon and Rosalie both protested. "I am so tired and fidgety. When I am in front I sit up straight and watch the road every minute. But in the back I can settle down and rest. Let Rosalie sit in front, she likes to watch the road and get excited, and squeal when you spin on the corners."

Rosalie and MacCammon eyed each other grimly when Doris slipped into her chosen place without waiting for the help of a friendly hand.

"The bishop," whispered MacCammon ominously.

"The bishop your grandmother," thought Rosalie, turning around to squint thoughtfully at her sister.

The first twenty-five miles were traversed in absolute silence, MacCammon driving with grim and rigid energy, Rosalie looking through half-closed lids reflectively into space, Doris crouching in the corner of the back seat alone.

Thirty-five miles—and then MacCammon laughed suddenly.

"Hang the bishop," he said in a low voice.

Rosalie laughed with him. "You can't hang him—it isn't orthodox."

"Burn him at the stake then. She hasn't— Anyhow, I don't—I am not going to get cold feet yet— That— There is no reason—"

"Faint heart," scoffed Rosalie.

"All right, I am game. Suppose you drive a while." Turning to Doris, he said, "Rosalie is going to drive a while, and I am coming back to help hold down the back seat. Don't argue. You know very well the back seat is too bumpy for one little light girl by herself. You need not hurry, Rosalie," he said, surrendering the wheel. "Doris is cross, and I have to reason with her. It takes time. You need not listen unless you particularly wish."

He got into the back seat serenely enough, and looked astonished when Doris withdrew to the farthest corner of the roomy seat.

"What is the matter? Does the seat slope over to that corner? That is a shame, I must have it fixed." And he sat down very comfortably in the middle of the seat, where Doris could not possibly keep the hem of her gown from touching him, nor even her rigid elbow, though it plainly was her desire.

Rosalie drove with a nicety of concentration that was most commendable, but Doris was stiffly mute to his overtures. And in spite of his persistent and determined tender chaffing, he was really calling down anathemas on the head of the offending bishop by the time they reached Aurora.

"Let's find a place to eat. I am hungry. I have done a hard day's work. Digging ditches has nothing on that," he said to Rosalie.

She nodded sympathetically. "Think well before it is too late," she warned. "Women are always like that—they go by spells. Sometimes they are and then sometimes they are not."

"Chiefly they are not, I perceive," he said doggedly. "She liked me well enough while I remained a mystery."

"Well, of course—"

"If you say bishop to me again I'll stone you," He cried, and Rosalie only laughed.

By this time Doris had finished patting her hair before the small mirror in her bag, and joined them quietly. But she was not hungry, she drank two cups of very strong coffee—and Mr. MacCammon suddenly was not hungry either. Rosalie munched comfortably through six courses and when she reached her ice-cream and macaroons she told MacCammon he might run along and get the gas if he liked while she was finishing, which he promptly did. As soon as he was gone she looked at her sister slyly.

"General—I—may I confide something—in you?"

Doris stiffened instantly, and turned a frigid face that way. "Yes," she said somberly, "go on, let's get it over with. I have been expecting it for some time."

A mischievous smile darted to Rosalie's eyes, but the shielding lashes hid it. "I—Do you think I am too young to fall in love?"

"No," said Doris desperately, "I do not. I don't think anybody is too young, or too old, or—anything."

"Age has nothing to do with love, has it?"

"No, age hasn't, nor brains, nor sense, nor dignity, nor—sometimes I think even religion hasn't anything to do with love."

"Of course I may be mistaken—"

"No chance."

"But he is so dear and nice, and though he has not proposed—still I know he is infatuated with me—and when he finishes school—he is a senior now, you know, and then he can marry if he likes."

Doris looked up, a sudden shining through the clouds. "He—what?"

"He graduates this year. He is a senior. But we are not engaged, not by any means. Only sometimes I think maybe I am not too young to fall in love. Bob Alden, you know."

Doris leaned weakly back in her chair.

"Are you joking?" she whispered with dry lips.

"Oh, Doris, I wouldn't do such a thing."

"Am I just imagining things or—"

"Yes, I think you are."

"Oh, Rosalie, you bad little girl, what have you done? I really believe Mr. MacCammon likes you."

"Likes me! Ye gods, aren't some folks blind? I can always tell when men are stuck on me long before they can tell it themselves, but some folks are so slow. You are a stupid girl, Doris, I have no patience with you. Poor dear Mr. MacCammon and the bishop, too—both of them—I think it is downright reprehensible, to dangle a bishop and a psychological philosopher at the same time. I wouldn't do such a thing."

Doris glimmered softly, the old Doris struggling weakly but jubilantly back to her own again.

"Oh, Rosalie, don't talk about the bishop," she said.

MacCammon was waiting for them at the car, with several magazines and boxes of candy on hand to help give the car a professionally touring appearance. And after the chill fog of the last week, Doris came to him, gleaming and glowing.

"I am all rested now," she said, smiling tremulously. "Please, Mr. Wizard, may I ride in front?"

He looked at her in astonishment more utterly blank than ever. Then he looked helplessly at Rosalie, humming brightly to herself as she picked out the largest box of candy to take with her into the back seat.

"Can you beat that? They are, and then they aren't. And when you just about get your mind made up that they aren't, and no use to talk about it, all of a sudden they are. And nobody ever knows why, or how it happened."

"What are you talking about?" asked Doris curiously.

"Psychology, dear Doris. Please get in quickly—yes, here in front—oh, this seat slopes toward the middle, does it? Fine! Well, as I was saying, do you think I'd better tie you in before you decide you aren't? And as for psychology, there is no such thing—not in a world that has women."

It did seem rather heartless to be so ecstatically happy when poor dear father was having such trouble, but then, Doris thought philosophically, that is what religion is for—to make us happy even in spite of our grief.

The rest of the ride was wonderful, through such gloriously beautiful country, and as for the dust—it was nothing, and the car ran like velvet, and almost before they knew it they were settled in their little borrowed apartment, laughing at the tininess of it, and getting ready for MacCammon, who had gone to break his presence to his friend.

He came for them at six o'clock and took them out to dinner with him, ordering the dishes so carefully and with such sweet regard for their youthful appetites—but after all, they could not eat, for the shadow of the operation was settling upon them. Yet how much better it was to be here in the big city within reach of father's kindly hand than to be away off in the manse quivering with the anxiety of what they did not know and could not guess, with only telegraph wires to link them each to each?

It seemed MacCammon would never be done with that sickening apple pie, but after an endless time they were really tripping softly, breathlessly, along the hall of the hospital in the wake of the "rubber-soled nurse," as Rosalie naughtily christened her. And there was father sitting alone in a white room, his eyes bandaged closely. He knew they were there before they spoke, and held out his hands to them, warmly impulsive. And they sat on the arms of his chair and petted the opposite sides of his head, and talked quietly and sensibly, as if the operation were nothing at all.

But almost immediately the door opened again, and a man— Yes, a minister— That blessed bishop, of course—MacCammon glared at him— How long the fellow was holding Doris' hand!— Right before her father—and Doris was letting him!— Well, couldn't he see that Rosalie was there, too—and a stranger?

"Your father said you would be here, so I stayed to speak to you."

"Yes, and I came, too, Bishop," said Rosalie brightly. "You must not overlook me."

MacCammon blessed her for the words. For the bishop dropped Doris' hand hurriedly and turned to her— What in the world could the church be thinking of, to have bishops as young as that?

"I do not believe he's as old as I am, and I am not old at all," thought MacCammon resentfully. "And they call him a father in the church. What are we coming to, anyhow?"

Doris was back at her father's side now, where she belonged, and MacCammon was being introduced to the bishop. They sized each other up very frankly.

"I'll bet he resents me as much as I do him, that's some satisfaction," MacCammon thought with boyish relish. "And I brought her up, too, all that long way—that will cut."

They did not stay very long—a gentle movement of the rubber-soled one's eyebrow hurried their departure.

The bishop could not accept MacCammon's invitation to come with them in the car, because he had his own little runabout. But wouldn't Miss Doris come with him for a run through the park, and along the lake front? MacCammon held his breath. Would she?

Doris put out her hand, quietly but cordially. "I know you will excuse me to-night, Bishop. I do not feel like talking, or—anything—just like going home quietly with Rosalie to think."

Never had MacCammon loved her as he did at that moment. The bishop walked down with her to the car and opened the back door for the girls.

"But it is my turn to sit in front," said Doris, smiling faintly. "We think it would be unfair to let Mr. MacCammon sit alone when he is driving us. And Rosalie and I always have each other, you know."

So the bishop had to help her into the car—MacCammon's car—and into the front seat with MacCammon himself, and the bishop had to stand on the curb while they drove off. No wonder MacCammon was whistling softly to himself. With Doris out of the question, the bishop was a nice enough fellow, clean, clear-cut, straightforward—but with Doris in the question he was an eternal nuisance and a bore. And MacCammon could never get Doris out of his questions any more.

"Will you come up?" she asked as they drew up beside the apartment.

"Not to-night," he said softly. "But thank you for asking." She had not asked the bishop. "To-night you girls must run straight to bed and rest, and I will come for you to go with me in the morning. No, you must not try to cook until the operation is over. I will eat with you after that to even up. I know a grand place for hot cakes and sirup—very close. Good night, Rosalie, you are a good little scout," he called, as she started up the stairs. Then he drew Doris into a shadowy corner and said, "You must not worry, Doris. Rosalie is taking this better than you are. Hasn't your religion taught you that things work out just right for—men—like your father—who are whole-souled and pure-minded?"

"Christians, you mean," said Doris, smiling at his evident desire to avoid the tone of preaching. "Yes, I know. I do believe that things will come right eventually, and I do not worry—much. But father is too good to suffer, and be hurt. It should have been some one else."

"Oh, Doris, don't you know that your father will have more tenderness and more gentleness for all sickness and all suffering, after he himself has suffered? Before this, he has spoken kindness. Now he will live it. It takes the ultimate caress of pain to give us understanding."

Doris moved her hands softly in his.

"Yes, you must go." He put his arms around her, and her face fell against his shoulder. "Go, dear Doris, and dream of sweet and lovely things—your father strong and well and tenderer than ever—and dream of me, not very good, I know, but—very fond of you. And please forget the bishop."

Doris laughed at that, quickly, breathlessly. "I will, just for to-night," she promised.

"No, for all the nights."

He kissed her hair where it curled beneath the blue motor hat, warmly, tenderly—for somehow he felt that this night of her anxious sorrow was not the time to press the kiss of love upon her lips, though he knew in his heart it would not have been denied him.