"What is it, Bishop?"

"I want a pro-cathedral, which is, as you know, that which does instead of a cathedral. Every summer the church here seems to get smaller, and I believe I could fill a bigger one."

Belding laughed. He, like the rest, knew that the largest church in the country could not hold those who flocked to hear this golden voice.

"How much money is available?" he hazarded, "and have you any idea what it is intended to spend. What about plans?"

"That's just it, we have no money and, of course, no plans, but, considering the amount of building material you use every day, it struck me that there might be laid aside enough to construct what I want without causing any hardship."

Belding hesitated, but so friendly was the look on the bishop's face and so quizzical the glance of the large brown eyes that he felt immediately prompted to build a pro-cathedral. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

"History has it that not so very long ago a certain young engineer expressed that which was highest in his nature by building a cathedral.

Think it over." And with that the bishop turned to the Indian agent who was moving mountainously across the lawn.

"Well, Mr. Dibbott, it seems just the other day when I arrived first in St. Marys and drove under a green arch at Mr. Filmer's dock and the entire population met me. One couldn't achieve that now. Great things are happening."

"You mean up at the works, sir?"

"Yes. I went over them again last week and had a short talk with Mr.

Clark--a very remarkable man--though, I confess that so far I have not observed him at church. I touched on that as a matter of fact."

Dibbott's pale blue eyes opened a little wider. "And what did he say?"

"He said that from his point of view the church was too divided within itself to impress him very forcibly."

"Ah!" grunted Dibbott--"and then?"

"I came back at him with the fact that the church was naturally divided by the moods of its followers."

"It's so, sir, we all know it."

The bishop cast an interested glance over the groups that now covered the lawn. He seemed not in the least depressed at the inward troubles of the church. Presently his eyes began to twinkle. "It's perfectly true. There are three schools of thought, that I've observed myself."

"What are they?" said Worden, who had silently come up.

"Plat.i.tudinarian; lat.i.tudinarian; att.i.tudinarian," came the answer, with a chuckle, then, turning to Filmer, who had stepped over to hear the joke, he added, "What do you think of my boat?" and pointed to a slim, black, two-masted steam-yacht that lay anch.o.r.ed just off the sh.o.r.e.

It was common knowledge that the bishop had spent part of a winter abroad collecting funds, and it was further admitted that it was impossible for him to visit the mult.i.tude of islands that lay in his charge without some independent means of transportation, but St. Marys was not yet aware that the trick had been turned.

"She means three months' work," went on the bishop thoughtfully, but without a shade of self-satisfaction, "and the biggest subscription I got was a hundred pounds. The smallest was from the owner of a large steamship line. He gave me one of the Company's official prayer books--and I never before felt about the prayer book just as I did about that one. I was begging mostly in England, and traveled about like a sort of mitered mendicant, addressing missionary meetings. It was the elderly ladies who did it, bless 'em. Then I went down to Cowes in the Isle of Wight and you see the result. There she is, solid oak and teak, a compound engine, twelve miles an hour, and good, I think, for any sea, no matter how tempestuous. I won't care now if there is no railway connection in half my diocese."

The others smiled and Filmer stroked his bushy, black whiskers.

"You're going to be a regular sybarite," he ventured.

"No," chuckled the bishop, "an anchorite." And with that sent his mind up stream to the rapids and the activity at the works. "I'm interested to see how much has been done here in what is really so short a time, only two years. It all seems to me so magnificent in its scope, and, as for Mr. Clark, who is evidently the center of the thing, one cannot but admire his incredible energy. I understand we have to thank our mayor for a good deal of it. Don't you agree with me, Mr. Manson?"

The chief constable, whose bulk had drawn up beside the others, shook his head gloomily. His face and manner were, in spite of his surroundings, still austere.

"No, sir, I don't admire Mr. Clark."

"But why?"

"Because, as I see it, he is only squandering the money of people whom he has hypnotized. He's got no balance, and the only thing he cares about is to spend--spend--spend."

Filmer smiled meaningly. The bishop glanced at him puzzled, then turned to Manson.

"Then you're not in any way impressed?"

"Not in the least."

"Well," came the deep, rich voice, "I must confess that I am, not only by what he spends but also by the undeniable fact that he has filled my church and your jail. Perhaps they go together," he added with a contagious grin.

Dibbott looked slightly shocked, but the bishop went on after an eloquent glance at Filmer.

"I found much that was admirable up there. It's true that we don't see eye to eye in certain things that appear all important to me, but perhaps also that was to be expected. Now will you excuse me a moment?

I see two friends out by the roadside who haven't on their party clothes."

His gaitered legs struck off across the lawn and Filmer's glance followed the powerful figure as it halted at the fence beside two Indians who waited irresolutely while their dark eyes explored the animated scene. The bishop, seemingly forgetful of all else, entered into an earnest conversation, during which a copper colored palm was held out to him, and in the palm the group could see something small and round that gleamed softly in the late afternoon sun. At that the bishop shook his head gravely and the palm was withdrawn, when there followed more talk in lowered tones, after which he vaulted the fence and came slowly back, his lips compressed and a quizzical smile on his big handsome face. He shot a look at the group but said nothing.

"What is it, sir?" asked Dibbott.

"Something that touches our conversation, curiously enough. Those two Indians have just paddled up from the settlement to ask me to bless a silver bullet, and they are parishioners of mine too."

"Why?" put in Manson abruptly.

"They say the bullet is to kill a wolf who is haunting the neighborhood and is possessed by a spirit of a bad man who died there only recently.

He apparently has an insatiable appet.i.te for Indian children, though no damage has been done as yet. It must have been a Unitarian spirit since he is evidently a one idea wolf," he pursued with a provocative grimace at the stolid Manson who was of that persuasion.

The others roared, but Manson, without a smile, held his ground.

"Why a bullet that has been blessed?"

"They a.s.sure me it is the only kind that can kill an animal inhabited by a spirit." The bishop's hand stole up to his jaw, in a favorite gesture. "Our conversation suggested the matter of Mr. Clark."

Filmer and the rest racked their brains in vain, then pleaded for light.

"Well," went on the deep voice, "these Indians profess the Christian faith, yet they get into their bark canoes and paddle twelve miles against the wind and up stream with a pet.i.tion that I do something that is dead against that faith, I mean the blessing of a bullet to arm it with supernatural power. Our friend, Mr. Clark, on the other hand, does not, so far as I know, profess any faith at all, though I should undoubtedly be asked to bury him should such a thing be unfortunately necessary, yet he does many things that I consider admirable without asking any blessing or unction or special recognition of any kind. I cannot see him, for instance, as a man who would use his friends for his own advantage or their money for his personal profit. In fact," he hesitated a little and then continued with that utter candor which characterized his entire life--"what I hope for our church is that it may so present its message and carry out its mission that it will ultimately attract just the type of notable men as the one of which we speak. And now, since this begins to border on a theological discussion, let us have some strawberries and cream. They are my own berries, and the cream, Mr. Filmer, is the product of that excellent yearling you were kind enough to send me last summer."

They moved into the study and were presently joined by Mrs. Dibbott and Mrs. Worden.

"We have seen the yacht," said the latter enthusiastically, "and she is lovely, but how do you p.r.o.nounce her name?"

The Bishop's eyes twinkled--"Just now it's Z-e-n-o-b-i-a, but that's the name of a heathen queen and I don't believe the Synod would stand for it. Can you ladies suggest something more suitable? You know what her work will be."

Mrs. Dibbott thought hard, and Mrs. Worden's gray eyes grew soft.

Admirable women were these, staunch and loyal, the helpmates of men through lonely years that had pa.s.sed in St. Marys. But too often the men did not realize this till the shadows lengthened.

"She'll be a messenger, won't she?" said Mrs. Worden.