mercies; but, for a meek, mild, gentle-spoken Christian, his lordship
was--" and Mrs. Phillips, with unaffected but easy grief, put up her
white apron to her flowing eyes.

"You cannot but rejoice that it is over," said Mr. Harding, still
consoling his friend. The archdeacon's mind, however, had already
travelled from the death chamber to the closet of the prime minister.
He had brought himself to pray for his father's life, but now that
that life was done, minutes were too precious to be lost. It was now
useless to dally with the fact of the bishop's death--useless to lose
perhaps everything for the pretence of a foolish sentiment.

But how was he to act while his father-in-law stood there holding his
hand? How, without appearing unfeeling, was he to forget his father
in the bishop--to overlook what he had lost, and think only of what he
might possibly gain?

"No, I suppose not," said he, at last, in answer to Mr. Harding. "We
have all expected it so long."

Mr. Harding took him by the arm and led him from the room. "We will
see him again to-morrow morning," said he; "we had better leave the
room now to the women." And so they went downstairs.

It was already evening and nearly dark. It was most important that
the prime minister should know that night that the diocese was
vacant. Everything might depend on it; and so, in answer to Mr.
Harding's further consolation, the archdeacon suggested that a
telegraph message should be immediately sent off to London. Mr.
Harding, who had really been somewhat surprised to find Dr. Grantly,