Not a sound came from the eleven bedesmen, as they sat listening to
what, according to the archdeacon, was their intended estate. They
grimly stared upon his burly figure, but did not then express, by word
or sign, the anger and disgust to which such language was sure to give
rise.

"Now let me ask you," he continued: "do you think you are worse off
than John Hiram intended to make you? Have you not shelter, and food,
and leisure? Have you not much more? Have you not every indulgence
which you are capable of enjoying? Have you not twice better food,
twice a better bed, ten times more money in your pocket than you were
ever able to earn for yourselves before you were lucky enough to get
into this place? And now you send a petition to the bishop, asking
for a hundred pounds a year! I tell you what, my friends; you are
deluded, and made fools of by wicked men who are acting for their
own ends. You will never get a hundred pence a year more than what
you have now: it is very possible that you may get less; it is very
possible that my lord the bishop, and your warden, may make changes--"

"No, no, no," interrupted Mr Harding, who had been listening with
indescribable misery to the tirade of his son-in-law; "no, my friends.
I want no changes,--at least no changes that shall make you worse off
than you now are, as long as you and I live together."

"God bless you, Mr Harding," said Bunce; and "God bless you, Mr
Harding, God bless you, sir: we know you was always our friend," was
exclaimed by enough of the men to make it appear that the sentiment
was general.

The archdeacon had been interrupted in his speech before he had quite