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

"You signed the pet.i.tion, 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 pa.s.s, and consider the next charge made here."

"What, about Uncle Billy?"

"Yes. You know the charge made, and as you signed the pet.i.tion 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 st.u.r.dy 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.