clergyman of the Church of England, be he who he might,

should have more than a thousand a year, and none less than
two hundred and fifty. His speech on this occasion was short,

for fifteen had to speak, and the room was hired for two hours
only, at the expiration of which the Quakers and Mr Cobden

were to make use of it for an appeal to the public in aid of the
Emperor of Russia; but it was sharp and effective; at least

he was told so by a companion with whom he now lived much,
and on whom he greatly depended--one Tom Towers, a very

leading genius, and supposed to have high employment on
the staff of The Jupiter.

So Eleanor, as was now her wont, went up to Mary Bold,
and Mary listened kindly, while the daughter spoke much of

her father, and, perhaps kinder still, found a listener in
Eleanor, while she spoke about her brother. In the meantime

the warden sat alone, leaning on the arm of his chair; he had
poured out a glass of wine, but had done so merely from habit,

for he left it untouched; there he sat gazing at the open window,
and thinking, if he can be said to have thought, of the

happiness of his past life. All manner of past delights came
before his mind, which at the time he had enjoyed without

considering them; his easy days, his absence of all kind of
hard work, his pleasant shady home, those twelve old neighbours

whose welfare till now had been the source of so much pleasant
care, the excellence of his children, the friendship of

the dear old bishop, the solemngrandeur of those vaulted
aisles, through which he loved to hear his own voice pealing;

and then that friend of friends, that choice ally that had never
deserted him, that eloquentcompanion that would always,

when asked, discourse such pleasant music, that violoncello of
his--ah, how happy he had been! but it was over now; his

easy days and absence of work had been the crime which
brought on him his tribulation; his shady home was pleasant

no longer; maybe it was no longer his; the old neighbours,
whose welfare had been so desired by him, were his enemies;

his daughter was as wretched as himself; and even the bishop
was made miserable by his position. He could never again

lift up his voice boldly as he had hitherto done among his
brethren, for he felt that he was disgraced; and he feared even

to touch his bow, for he knew how grievous a sound of wailing,
how piteous a lamentation, it would produce.

He was still sitting in the same chair and the same posture,
having hardly moved a limb for two hours, when Eleanor

came back to tea, and succeeded in bringing him with her
into the drawing-room.

The tea seemed as comfortless as the dinner, though the
warden, who had hitherto eaten nothing all day, devoured

the plateful of bread and butter, unconscious of what he was doing.
Eleanor had made up her mind to force him to talk to her,

but she hardly knew how to commence: she must wait till the urn
was gone, till the servant would no longer be coming in and out.

At last everything was gone, and the drawing-room door was
permanently closed; then Eleanor, getting up and going

round to her father, put her arm round his neck, and said,
'Papa, won't you tell me what it is?'

'What what is, my dear?'
'This new sorrow that torments you; I know you are

unhappy,papa.'
'New sorrow! it's no new sorrow, my dear; we have all

our cares sometimes'; and he tried to smile, but it was a
ghastly failure; 'but I shouldn't be so dull a companion;

come, we'll have some music.'
'No, papa, not tonight--it would only trouble you tonight';

and she sat upon his knee, as she sometimes would in their
gayest moods, and with her arm round his neck, she said:

'Papa, I will not leave you till you talk to me; oh, if you only
knew how much good it would do to you, to tell me of it all.'

The father kissed his daughter, and pressed her to his heart;
but still he said nothing: it was so hard to him to speak of his

own sorrows; he was so shy a man even with his own child!
'Oh, papa, do tell me what it is; I know it is about the

hospital, and what they are doing up in London, and what
that cruel newspaper has said; but if there be such cause for

sorrow, let us be sorrowful together; we are all in all to each
other now: dear, dear papa, do speak to me.'

Mr Harding could not well speak now, for the warm tears
were running down his cheeks like rain in May, but he held

his child close to his heart, and squeezed her hand as a lover
might, and she kissed his forehead and his wet cheeks, and lay

upon his bosom, and comforted him as a woman only can do.
, My own child,' he said, as soon as his tears would let him

speak, 'my own, own child, why should you too be unhappy
before it is necessary? It may come to that, that we must

leave this place, but till that time comes, why should your
young days be clouded?'

'And is that all, papa? If that be all, let us leave it, and
have light hearts elsewhere: if that be all, let us go. Oh,

papa, you and I could be happy if we had only bread to eat,
so long as our hearts were light.'

And Eleanor's face was lighted up with enthusiasm as she
told her father how he might banish all his care; and a gleam

of joy shot across his brow as this idea of escape again
presented itself, and he again fancied for a moment that he could

spurn away from him the income which the world envied
him; that he could give the lie to that wielder of the tomahawk

who had dared to write such things of him in The Jupiter;
that he could leave Sir Abraham, and the archdeacon, and

Bold, and the rest of them with their lawsuit among them, and
wipe his hands altogether of so sorrow-stirring a concern. Ah,

what happiness might there be in the distance, with Eleanor
and him in some small cottage, and nothing left of their former

grandeur but their music! Yes, they would walk forth with
their music books, and their instruments, and shaking the dust

from off their feet as they went, leave the ungrateful place.
Never did a poor clergyman sigh for a warm benefice more

anxiously than our warden did now to be rid of his.
'Give it up, papa,' she said again, jumping from his knees

and standing on her feet before him, looking boldly into his
face; 'give it up, papa.'

Oh, it was sad to see how that momentary gleam of joy
passed away; how the look of hope was dispersed from that

sorrowful face, as the remembrance of the archdeacon came
back upon our poor warden, and he reflected that he could

not stir from his now hated post. He was as a man bound with
iron, fettered with adamant: he was in no respect a free

agent; he had no choice. 'Give it up!' Oh if he only could:
what an easy way that were out of all his troubles!

'Papa, don't doubt about it,' she continued, thinking that
his hesitation arose from his unwillingness to abandon so

comfortable a home; 'is it on my account that you would stay
here? Do you think that I cannot be happy without a pony-

carriage and a fine drawing-room? Papa, I never can be
happy here, as long as there is a question as to your honour in

staying here; but I could be gay as the day is long in the
smallest tiny little cottage, if I could see you come in and go

out with a light heart. Oh! papa, your face tells so much;
though you won't speak to me with your voice, I know how