At
last, auntie smelt it, too, and that soon brought the men in! Ugh!
Perhaps you've . . .
MANSON. I have! But what has all this to do with . . .
MARY. Don't get impatient: it's all part of the story. . . .
Well, we thought we should have poor dear Uncle William perfectly
ill . . .
MANSON. Because of the drain? . . .
MARY. No, because of the Fund. He tried everything: all his rich
friends, bazaars, jumble-sales, special intercessions--everything!
And nothing seemed to come of it!
Then at last, yesterday morning, he was reading the newspaper, and
there was a long piece about the Bishop of Benares. Uncle read it
aloud to us. Suddenly, in the middle, he broke off and said: _Look
at the power this chap seems to have at the back of him! I wish to
God I had some of it_!
He had scarcely said it, when there was a rat-tat at the door: it
was the postman; and what do you think? IT WAS A LETTER FROM THE
BISHOP OF BENARES?
MANSON [anticipating the critics]. What a coincidence!
MARY. Isn't that wonderful? _Isn't_ it just like a fairy-tale?
Wait a bit.
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