“The eldest was a boy,” she said. “The only boy. He would have been thirteen. He died at three days.”

“Delia,” the Bishop said. “My dear child. But it won’t be long now. I’ll see your son. I’ll know him the minute I see him. We will have long talks. I will tell him all about this afternoon — all about his little sisters, and the old dog here, and all. By the grace of God, he is thirteen years ahead of me up there. Was he born in this house, Delia?”

Mrs. Bagot nodded yes, and then she said, “He was born and died in the front bedroom upstairs.”

“In the front bedroom upstairs,” the Bishop said, repeating her words carefully, as though he had been given information he had never hoped to get. “Oh, Delia, I am very fortunate that I came here today. I didn’t know about your son. I came here to find you, and now I find him, too. He will show me the ropes. I hope I am able to walk better there than I am here. Please God I will. But I will see your son first thing. And perhaps, even before that, he will help me, at the last minute.”

Mrs. Bagot smiled weakly, as though she were trying to show she appreciated a remark she did not really understand.

“At the last minute,” she said, echoing his words but not his thought. Then she said, “There are a lot of last minutes.”

“One for each of us,” the Bishop said quickly. “Oh, it is another of the blessings Our Great Lord gives us, a last minute in addition to all the other minutes. A last minute. It fills me, the thought of it fills me with fear, and also with joy.”

“Fear, Father?”