‘Surely,’ said Mrs Phillips. ‘The Lord be praised for all his 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 counselling 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, 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 for 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 woman.’ 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, as he thought, so much affected, was rather taken aback; but he made no objection. He knew that the archdeacon had some hope of succeeding to his father’s place, though he by no means knew how highly raised that hope had been.

‘Yes,’ said Dr Grantly, collecting himself and shaking off his weakness, ‘We must send a message at once; we don’t know what might be the consequences of delay. Will you do it?’

‘I! Oh yes; certainly: I’ll do it, only I don’t know exactly what it is you want.’

Dr Grantly sat down before a writing table, and taking pen and ink, wrote on a slip of paper as follows:–

By Electric Telegraph,

For the Earl of –, Downing Street, or elsewhere.

‘The Bishop of Barchester is dead.’

Message sent by the Rev. Septimus Harding.

‘There,’ said he. ‘Just take that to the telegraph office at the railway station, and give it as it is; they’ll probably make you copy it on to one of their own slips; that’s all you’ll have to do: then you’ll have to pay them half–a–crown.’ And the archdeacon put his hand in his pocket and pulled out the necessary sum.

Mr Harding felt very much like an errand–boy, and also felt that he was called on to perform his duties as such at rather an unseemly time; but he said nothing, and took the slip of paper and the proffered coin.

‘But you’ve put my name into it, archdeacon.’

‘Yes,’ said the other, ‘There should be the name of some clergyman, you know, and what name so proper as that of so old a friend as yourself? The Earl won’t look at the name you may be sure of that; but my dear Mr Harding, pray don’t lose any time.’

Mr Harding got as far as the library door on his way to the station, when he suddenly remembered the news with which he was fraught when he entered to poor bishop’s bedroom. He had found the moment