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 generous. The Bishop drained his glass and poured it full afresh. He beamed at me, and twirled the shank between his fingers and against the light.

“’Twas an admirable thought, Ryder,” he said, smiling, “that you should have recalled this inn. I wonder, now, where that laggard coachman of mine may be?”

“Deep to his neck in drifts,” says I, with a laugh.

“’Twould be a pity,” said the Bishop, shaking his head, “an ill bed upon a bitter night. But let us hope,” he added cheerfully, “that the rascal is kicking his heels by a comfortable fire.”

“And drinking some such noble liquor as his master,” I put in.

The Bishop laughed, showing his fine white teeth. He laughed, and drank again. “And yet,” said he, moralising, “rightly thought on, Ryder, these afflictions and visitations of the weather have still their divine uses.” I cocked my eye at him, in wonder, to see him break out in this preaching fashion. “They teach