But by no means easy were the emotions of him who sat there watching.
He knew it must be now or never. He was already over fifty, and
there was little chance that his friends who were now leaving office
would soon return to it. No probable British prime minister but he
who was now in, he who was so soon to be out, would think of making
a bishop of Dr. Grantly. Thus he thought long and sadly, in deep
silence, and then gazed at that still living face, and then at last
dared to ask himself whether he really longed for his father's death.

The effort was a salutary one, and the question was answered in a
moment. The proud, wishful, worldly man sank on his knees by the
bedside and, taking the bishop's hand within his own, prayed eagerly
that his sins might be forgiven him.

His face was still buried in the clothes when the door of the bedroom
opened noiselessly and Mr. Harding entered with a velvet step. Mr.
Harding's attendance at that bedside had been nearly as constant as
that of the archdeacon, and his ingress and egress was as much a
matter of course as that of his son-in-law. He was standing close
beside the archdeacon before he was perceived, and would also have
knelt in prayer had he not feared that his doing so might have caused
some sudden start and have disturbed the dying man. Dr. Grantly,
however, instantly perceived him and rose from his knees. As he did
so Mr. Harding took both his hands and pressed them warmly. There
was more fellowship between them at that moment than there had ever
been before, and it so happened that after circumstances greatly
preserved the feeling. As they stood there pressing each other's
hands, the tears rolled freely down their cheeks.