betokened the decency, the outward beauty and grace of our

church establishment.
'Now, my men,' he began, when he had settled himself well

in his position, 'I want to say a few words to you. Your good
friend, the warden here, and myself, and my lord the bishop,

on whose behalf I wish to speak to you, would all be very sorry,
very sorry indeed, that you should have any just ground of

complaint. Any just ground of complaint on your part would
be removed at once by the warden, or by his lordship, or by

me on his behalf, without the necessity of any petition on your
part.' Here the orator stopped for a moment, expecting that

some little murmurs of applause would show that the weakest
of the men were beginning to give way; but no such murmurs

came. Bunce, himself, even sat with closed lips, mute and
unsatisfactory. 'Without the necessity of any petition at all,'

he repeated. 'I'm told you have addressed a petition to my
lord.' He paused for a reply from the men, and after a while,

Handy plucked up courage and said, 'Yes, we has.'
' You have addressed a petition to my lord, in which, as I am

informed, you express an opinion that you do not receive from
Hiram's estate all that is your due.' Here most of the men

expressed their assent. 'Now what is it you ask for? What is
it you want that you hav'n't got here? What is it--'

'A hundred a year,' muttered old Moody, with a voice as
if it came out of the ground.

'A hundred a year!' ejaculated the archdeacon militant,
defying the impudence of these claimants with one hand

stretched out and closed, while with the other he tightly
grasped, and secured within his breeches pocket, that symbol

of the church's wealth which his own loose half-crowns not
unaptly represented. 'A hundred a year! Why, my men, you

must be mad; and you talk about John Hiram's will! When
John Hiram built a hospital for worn-out old men, worn-out

old labouring men, infirm old men past their work, cripples,
blind, bed-ridden, and such like, do you think he meant to

make gentlemen of them? Do you think John Hiram intended
to give a hundred a year to old single men, who earned perhaps

two shillings or half-a-crown a day for themselves and families
in the best of their time? No, my men, I'll tell you what John

Hiram meant: he meant that twelve poor old worn-out
labourers, men who could no longer support themselves, who

had no friends to support them, who must starve and perish
miserably if not protected by the hand of charity; he meant

that twelve such men as these should come in here in their
poverty and wretchedness, and find within these walls shelter

and food before their death, and a little leisure to make their
peace with God. That was what John Hiram meant: you

have not read John Hiram's will, and I doubt whether those
wicked men who are advising you have done so. I have; I

know what his will was; and I tell you that that was his will,
and that that was his intention.'

Not a sound came from the eleven bedesmen, as they sat
listening to what, according to the archdeacon, was their

intended estate. They grimly stared upon his burly figure, but
did not then express, by word or sign, the anger and disgust to

which such language was sure to give rise.
'Now let me ask you,' he continued: 'do you think you are

worse off than John Hiram intended to make you? Have you
not shelter, and food, and leisure? Have you not much more?

Have you not every indulgence which you are capable of
enjoying? Have you not twice better food, twice a better bed,

ten times more money in your pocket than you were ever able
to earn for yourselves before you were lucky enough to get into

this place? And now you send a petition to the bishop, asking
for a hundred pounds a year! I tell you what, my friends;

you are deluded, and made fools of by wicked men who are
acting for their own ends. You will never get a hundred pence

a year more than what you have now: it is very possible that
you may get less; it is very possible that my lord the bishop,

and your warden, may make changes--'
'No, no, no,' interrupted Mr Harding, who had been listening

with indescribablemisery to the tirade of his son-in-law;
'no, my friends. I want no changes--at least no changes that

shall make you worse off than you now are, as long as you and
I live together.'

'God bless you, Mr Harding,' said Bunce; and 'God bless
you, Mr Harding, God bless you, sir: we know you was

always our friend,' was exclaimed by enough of the men to
make it appear that the sentiment was general.

The archdeacon had been interrupted in his speech before he
had quite finished it; but he felt that he could not recommence

with dignity after this little ebullition, and he led the way
back into the garden, followed by his father-in-law.

'Well,' said he, as soon as he found himself within the cool
retreat of the warden's garden; 'I think I spoke to them

plainly.' And he wiped the perspiration from his brow; for
making a speech under a broiling mid-day sun in summer, in a

full suit of thick black cloth, is warm work.
'Yes, you were plain enough,' replied the warden, in a tone

which did not express approbation.
'And that's everything,' said the other, who was clearly well

satisfied with himself; 'that's everything: with those sort of
people one must be plain, or one will not be understood. Now,

I think they did understand me--I think they knew what I meant.'
The warden agreed. He certainly thought they had understood

to the full what had been said to them.
'They know pretty well what they have to expect from us;

they know how we shall meet any refractory spirit on their
part; they know that we are not afraid of them. And now I'll just

step into Chadwick's, and tell him what I've done; and then I'll
go up to the palace, and answer this petition of theirs.'

The warden's mind was very full--full nearly to overcharging
itself; and had it done so--had he allowed himself to speak

the thoughts which were working within him, he would indeed
have astonished the archdeacon by the reprobation he would

have expressed as to the proceeding of which he had been so
unwilling a witness. But different feelings kept him silent; he

was as yet afraid of differing from his son-in-law--he was
anxious beyond measure to avoid even a semblance of rupture

with any of his order, and was painfully" target="_blank" title="ad.痛苦地；费力地">painfullyfearful of having to
come to an open quarrel with any person on any subject. His

life had hitherto been so quiet, so free from strife; his little
early troubles had required nothing but passivefortitude; his

subsequent prosperity had never forced upon him any active
cares--had never brought him into disagreeablecontact with

anyone. He felt that he would give almost anything--much
more than he knew he ought to do--to relieve himself from the

storm which he feared was coming. It was so hard that the
pleasant waters of his little stream should be disturbed and

muddied by rough hands; that his quiet paths should be made a
battlefield; that the unobtrusive corner of the world which had

been allotted to him, as though by Providence, should be invaded
and desecrated, and all within it made miserable and unsound.

Money he had none to give; the knack of putting guineas
together had never belonged to him; but how willingly, with

what a foolish easiness, with what happy alacrity, would he
have abandoned the half of his income for all time to come,