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Another murmur, somewhat more articulate than the first,

passed round the circle, and this time it was intended to imply



a blessing on Mr Harding. It had, however, but little cordiality

in it. Poor old men! how could they be cordial with their



sore consciences and shamed faces? how could they bid God

bless him with hearty voices and a true benison, knowing, as



they did, that their vile cabal had driven him from his happy

home, and sent him in his old age to seek shelter under a



strange roof-tree? They did their best, however; they drank

their wine, and withdrew.



As they left the hall-door, Mr Harding shook hands with

each of the men, and spoke a kind word to them about their



individual cases and ailments; and so they departed, answering

his questions in the fewest words, and retreated to their



dens, a sorrowful repentant crew.

All but Bunce, who still remained to make his own farewell.



'There's poor old Bell,' said Mr Harding; 'I mustn't go

without saying a word to him; come through with me, Bunce,



and bring the wine with you'; and so they went through to

the men's cottages, and found the old man propped up as usual



in his bed.

'I've come to say good-bye to you, Bell,' said Mr Harding,



speaking loud, for the old man was deaf.

'And are you going away, then, really?' asked Bell.



'Indeed I am, and I've brought you a glass of wine; so that

we may part friends, as we lived, you know.'



The old man took the proffered glass in his shaking hands,

and drank it eagerly. 'God bless you, Bell!' said Mr



Harding; 'good-bye, my old friend.'

'And so you're really going?' the man again asked.



'Indeed I am, Bell.'

The poor old bed-ridden creature still kept Mr Harding's



hand in his own, and the warden thought that he had met

with something like warmth of feeling in the one of all his



subjects from whom it was the least likely to be expected; for

poor old Bell had nearly outlived all human feelings. 'And



your reverence,' said he, and then he paused, while his old

palsied head shook horribly, and his shrivelled cheeks sank



lower within his jaws, and his glazy eye gleamed with a

momentary light; 'and your reverence, shall we get the



hundred a year, then?'

How gently did Mr Harding try to extinguish the false hope



of money which had been so wretchedly raised to disturb the

quiet of the dying man! One other week and his mortal coil



would be shuffled off; in one short week would God resume

his soul, and set it apart for its irrevocable doom; seven more



tedious days and nights of senseless inactivity, and all would

be over for poor Bell in this world; and yet, with his last



audible words, he was demanding his moneyed rights, and

asserting himself to be the proper heir of John Hiram's bounty!



Not on him, poor sinner as he was, be the load of such sin!

Mr Harding returned to his parlour, meditating with a sick



heart on what he had seen, and Bunce with him. We will not

describe the parting of these two good men, for good men they



were. It was in vain that the late warden endeavoured to

comfort the heart of the old bedesman; poor old Bunce felt



that his days of comfort were gone. The hospital had to him

been a happy home, but it could be so no longer. He had



had honour there, and friendship; he had recognised his

master, and been recognised; all his wants, both of soul and



body, had been supplied, and he had been a happy man. He

wept grievously as he parted from his friend, and the tears of



an old man are bitter. 'It is all over for me in this world,'

said he, as he gave the last squeeze to Mr Harding's hand;



'I have now to forgive those who have injured me--and to die.'

And so the old man went out, and then Mr Harding gave



way to his grief and he too wept aloud.

CHAPTER XXI



Conclusion

Our tale is now done, and it only remains to us to collect



the scattered threads of our little story, and to tie them

into a seemly knot. This will not be a work of labour, either



to the author or to his readers; we have not to deal with many

personages, or with stirring events, and were it not for the custom



of the thing, we might leave it to the imagination of all concerned

to conceive how affairs at Barchester arranged themselves.



On the morning after the day last alluded to, Mr Harding,




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