"I have something to tell you," she began nervously, "about an
arrangement I have made for this afternoon."
Mr. Bull, who was drinking a tumbler of water--he was a teetotaller
and non-smoker, and one of his grievances was that his wife found it
desirable to take a little wine for the Pauline reason--set it down and
said:
"Never mind your afternoon arrangements, my dear; they are generally
of a sort that can be altered, for _I_ have something to tell _you_,
something very important. My call has come."
"Your call, dear. What call? I did not know that you expected
anyone--and, by the way----"
She got no further, for her husband interrupted.
"Do not be ridiculous, Dorcas. I said call--not caller, and I use the
word in its higher sense."
"Oh! I understand, forgive me for being so stupid. Have they made you a
bishop?"
"A bishop----"
"I mean a dean, or an archdeacon, or something!" she went on confusedly.
"No, Dorcas, they have not. I could scarcely expect promotion as yet,
though it is true that I thought--but never mind, others no doubt have
better claims and longer service. I have, however, been honoured with a
most responsible duty."
"Indeed, dear. What duty?"
"I have been nominated priest-in-charge of the Sisa Station.
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