certainly be at the House in the course of the night, where an

answer from himself might possibly be elicited.
To the House Mr Harding went, and left his note, not finding

Sir Abraham there. He added a most piteous entreaty that
he might be favoured with an answer that evening, for

which he would return. He then journeyed back sadly to the
Chapter Coffee House, digesting his great thoughts, as best he

might, in a clattering omnibus, wedged in between a wet old
lady and a journeyman glazier returning from his work with

his tools in his lap. In melancholysolitude he discussed his
mutton chop and pint of port. What is there in this world

more melancholy than such a dinner? A dinner, though eaten
alone, in a country hotel may be worthy of some energy; the

waiter, if you are known, will make much of you; the landlord
will make you a bow and perhaps put the fish on the table;

if you ring you are attended to, and there is some life about it.
A dinner at a London eating-house is also lively enough, if it

have no other attraction. There is plenty of noise and stir
about it, and the rapid whirl of voices and rattle of dishes

disperses sadness. But a solitary dinner in an old, respectable,
sombre, solid London inn, where nothing makes any noise but

the old waiter's creaking shoes; where one plate slowly goes
and another slowly comes without a sound; where the two or

three guests would as soon think of knocking each other down
as of speaking; where the servants whisper, and the whole

household is disturbed if an order be given above the voice--
what can be more melancholy than a mutton chop and a pint

of port in such a place?
Having gone through this Mr Harding got into another

omnibus, and again returned to the House. Yes, Sir Abraham
was there, and was that moment on his legs, fighting eagerly

for the hundred and seventh clause of the Convent Custody
Bill. Mr Harding's note had been delivered to him; and if

Mr Harding would wait some two or three hours, Sir Abraham
could be asked whether there was any answer. The House

was not full, and perhaps Mr Harding might get admittance
into the Strangers' Gallery, which admission, with the help of

five shillings, Mr Harding was able to effect.
This bill of Sir Abraham's had been read a second time and

passed into committee. A hundred and six clauses had already
been discussed and had occupied only four mornings and five

evening sittings; nine of the hundred and six clauses were
passed, fifty-five were withdrawn by consent, fourteen had

been altered so as to mean the reverse of the original proposition,
eleven had been postponed for further consideration, and

seventeen had been directly negatived. The hundred and
seventh ordered the bodily searching of nuns for jesuitical

symbols by aged clergymen, and was considered to be the real
mainstay of the whole bill. No intention had ever existed to

pass such a law as that proposed, but the government did not
intend to abandon it till their object was fully attained by the

discussion of this clause. It was known that it would be
insisted on with terrible vehemence by Protestant Irish members,

and as vehemently denounced by the Roman Catholic; and
it was justly considered that no further union between the

parties would be possible after such a battle. The innocent
Irish fell into the trap as they always do, and whiskey and

poplins became a drug in the market.
A florid-faced gentleman with a nice head of hair, from the

south of Ireland, had succeeded in catching the speaker's eye
by the time that Mr Harding had got into the gallery, and was

denouncing the proposed sacrilege, his whole face glowing
with a fine theatrical frenzy.

'And this is a Christian country?' said he. (Loud cheers;
counter cheers from the ministerial benches. 'Some doubt as

to that,' from a voice below the gangway.) 'No, it can be no
Christian country, in which the head of the bar, the lagal

adviser (loud laughter and cheers) -yes, I say the lagal adviser
of the crown (great cheers and laughter)--can stand up in his

seat in this house (prolonged cheers and laughter), and
attempt to lagalise indacent assaults on the bodies of religious

ladies.' (Deafening cheers and laughter, which were prolonged
till the honourable member resumed his seat.)

When Mr Harding had listened to this and much more of
the same kind for about three hours, he returned to the door of

the House, and received back from the messenger his own note,
with the following words scrawled in pencil on the back of it:

'To-morrow, 10 P.M.--my chambers.--A. H.'
He was so far successful--but 10 P.M.: what an hour Sir

Abraham had named for a legal interview! Mr Harding felt
perfectly sure that long before that Dr Grantly would be in

London. Dr Grantly could not, however, know that this interview
had been arranged, nor could he learn it unless he managed

to get hold of Sir Abraham before that hour; and as this
was very improbable, Mr Harding determined to start from

his hotel early, merely leaving word that he should dine out,
and unless luck were much against him, he might still escape the

archdeacon till his return from the attorney-general's chambers.
He was at breakfast at nine, and for the twentieth time

consulted his Bradshaw, to see at what earliest hour Dr Grantly
could arrive from Barchester. As he examined the columns,

he was nearly petrified by the reflection that perhaps the
archdeacon might come up by the night-mail train! His heart

sank within him at the horrid idea, and for a moment he felt
himself dragged back to Barchester without accomplishing any

portion of his object. Then he remembered that had Dr
Grantly done so, he would have been in the hotel, looking

for him long since.
'Waiter,' said he, timidly.

The waiter approached, creaking in his shoes, but voiceless.
'Did any gentleman--a clergyman, arrive here by the night-

mail train ?'
'No, sir, not one,' whispered the waiter, putting his mouth

nearly close to the warden's ear.
Mr Harding was reassured.

'Waiter,' said he again, and the waiter again creaked up.
'If anyone calls for me, I am going to dine out, and shall

return about eleven o'clock.'
The waiter nodded, but did not this time vouchsafe any

reply; and Mr Harding, taking up his hat, proceeded out to
pass a long day in the best way he could, somewhere out of

sight of the archdeacon.
Bradshaw had told him twenty times that Dr Grantly could

not be at Paddington station till 2 P.M., and our poor friend
might therefore have trusted to the shelter of the hotel for some

hours longer with perfect safety; but he was nervous. There
was no knowing what steps the archdeacon might take for his

apprehension: a message by electric telegraph might desire
the landlord of the hotel to set a watch upon him; some letter

might come which he might find himself unable to disobey;
at any rate, he could not feel himself secure in any place at

which the archdeacon could expect to find him; and at
10 A.M. he started forth to spend twelve hours in London.

Mr Harding had friends in town had he chosen to seek
them; but he felt that he was in no humour for ordinary calls,