And on the following morning, punctually at half-past nine, he knocked
at the palace door and asked for Mr. Slope.

The bishop had one small room allotted to him on the ground-floor,
and Mr. Slope had another. Into this latter Mr. Harding was shown
and asked to sit down. Mr. Slope was not yet there. The ex-warden
stood up at the window looking into the garden, and could not help
thinking how very short a time had passed since the whole of that
house had been open to him, as though he had been a child of the
family, born and bred in it. He remembered how the old servants used
to smile as they opened the door to him; how the familiar butler
would say, when he had been absent a few hours longer than usual,
"A sight of you, Mr. Harding, is good for sore eyes;" how the fussy
housekeeper would swear that he couldn't have dined, or couldn't
have breakfasted, or couldn't have lunched. And then, above all, he
remembered the pleasant gleam of inward satisfaction which always
spread itself over the old bishop's face whenever his friend entered
his room.

A tear came into each eye as he reflected that all this was gone.
What use would the hospital be to him now? He was alone in the world,
and getting old; he would soon, very soon have to go and leave it all,
as his dear old friend had gone; go, and leave the hospital, and his
accustomed place in the cathedral, and his haunts and pleasures, to
younger and perhaps wiser men. That chanting of his! Perhaps, in truth,
the time for it was gone by. He felt as though the world were sinking
from his feet; as though this, this was the time for him to turn with
confidence to those hopes which he had preached with confidence to