open window, and thinking, if he can be said to have thought, of the happiness of his past life. All manner of past delights came before his mind, which at the time he had enjoyed without considering them; his easy days, his absence of all kind of hard work, his pleasant shady home, those twelve old neighbours whose welfare till now had been the source of so much pleasant care, the excellence of his children, the friendship of the dear old bishop, the solemn grandeur of those vaulted aisles, through which he loved to hear his own voice pealing; and then that friend of friends, that choice ally that had never deserted him, that eloquent companion that would always, when asked, discourse such pleasant music, that violoncello of his—ah, how happy he had been! but it was over now; his easy days and absence of work had been the crime which brought on him his tribulation; his shady home was pleasant no longer; may be it was no longer his; the old neighbours, whose welfare had been so desired by him, were his enemies; his daughter was as wretched as himself, and even the bishop was made miserable by his position. He could never again lift up his voice boldly as he had hitherto done among his brethren, for he felt that he was disgraced; and he feared even to touch his bow, for he knew how grievous a sound of wailing, how piteous a lamentation, it would produce.

He was still sitting in the same chair and the same posture, having hardly moved a limb for two hours, when Eleanor came back to tea, and succeeded in bringing him with her into the drawing-room.

The tea seemed as comfortless as the dinner, though the warden, who had hitherto eaten nothing all day, devoured the plateful of bread and butter, unconscious of what he was doing.

Eleanor had made up her mind to force him to talk to her, but she hardly knew how to commence: she must wait till the urn was gone, till the servant would no longer be coming in and out.

At last everything was gone, and the drawing-room door was permanently closed; then Eleanor, getting up and going round to her father, put her arm round his neck, and said, “Papa, won’t you tell me what it is?”

“What what is, my dear?”

“This new sorrow that torments you; I know you are unhappy, papa.”

“New sorrow! it’s no new sorrow, my dear, we have all our cares sometimes,” and he tried to smile, but it was a ghastly failure; “but I shouldn’t be so dull a companion; come, we’ll have some music.”

“No, papa, not to-night—it would only trouble you to-night;” and she sat upon his knee, as she sometimes would in their gayest moods, and with her arm round his neck, she said, “Papa, I will not leave you till you talk to me; oh, if you only knew how much good it would do to you, to tell me of it all.”

The father kissed his daughter, and pressed her to his heart; but still he said nothing; it was so hard to him to speak of his own sorrows; he was so shy a man even with his own child.

“Oh, papa, do tell me what it is; I know it is about the hospital, and what they are doing up in London, and what that cruel newspaper has said; but if there be such cause for sorrow, let us be sorrowful together; we are all in all to each other now: dear, dear papa, do speak to me.”

Mr. Harding could not well speak now, for the warm tears were running down his cheeks like rain in May, but he held his child close to his heart, and squeezed her hand as a lover might, and she kissed his forehead and his wet cheeks, and lay upon his bosom, and comforted him as a woman only can do.

“My own child,” he said, as soon as his tears would let him speak; “my own, own child, why should you too be unhappy before it is necessary: it may come to that, that we must leave this place, but till that time comes, why should your young days be clouded?”