and properly fed. It had come to that with her that life had now no other purpose. She recked nothing of the imaginary rights of others. She had no patience with her husband when he declared to her that he could not accept the hospital unless he knew that Mr Harding had refused it. Her husband had no right to be Quixotic at the expense of fourteen children. The narrow escape of throwing away his good fortune which her lord had had, almost paralysed her. Now, indeed, they had received the full promise not only from Mr Slope, but also from Mrs Proudie. Now, indeed, they might reckon with safety on their good fortune. But what if it all had been lost? What if her fourteen bairns had been resteeped to the hips in poverty by the morbid sentimentality of their father? Mrs Quiverful was just at present a happy woman, but yet it nearly took her breath away when she thought of the risk they had run.

‘I don’t know what your father means when he talks so much of what is due to Mr Harding,’ she said to her eldest daughter. ‘Does he think that Mr Harding would give him £ 450 out of fine feeling? And what signifies it when he offends, as long as he gets the place? He does not expect anything better. It passes me to think how your father can be so soft, while everybody around him is so griping.’

This, while the rest of the world was accusing Mr Quiverful of rapacity for promotion and disregard for his honour, the inner world of his own household was falling foul of him, with equal vehemence, for his willingness to sacrifice their interest to a false feeling of sentimental pride. It is astonishing how much difference the point of view makes in the aspect of all that we look at!

Such was the feelings of the different members of the family at Puddingdale on the occasion of Mr Slope’s second visit. Mrs Quiverful, as soon as she saw his horse coming up the avenue from the vicarage gate, hastily packed up her huge basket of needlework, and hurried herself and her daughter out of the room in which she was sitting with her husband. ‘It’s Mr Slope,’ she said. ‘He’s come to settle with you about the hospital. I do hope we shall now be able to move at once.’ And she hastened to bid the maid of all work to go to the door, so that the welcome great man might not be kept waiting.

Mr Slope thus found Mr Quiverful alone. Mrs Quiverful went off to her kitchen and back settlements with anxious beating heart, almost dreading that there might be some slip between the cup of her happiness and the lip of her fruition, but yet comforting herself with the reflection that after what had taken place, any such slip could hardly be possible.

Mr Slope was all smiles as he shook his brother clergyman’s hand, and said that he had ridden over because he thought it right at once to put Mr Quiverful in possession of the facts of the matter regarding the wardenship of the hospital. As he spoke, the poor expectant husband and father saw at a glance that his brilliant hopes were to be dashed to the ground, and that his visitor was now there for the purpose of unsaying what on his former visit he had said. There was something in the tone of the voice, something in the glance of the eye, which told the tale. Mr Quiverful knew it all at once. He maintained his self–possession, however, smiled with a slight unmeaning smile, and merely said that he was obliged to Mr Slope for the trouble he was taking.

‘It has been a troublesome matter from first to last,’ said Mr Slope; ‘and the bishop has hardly known how to act. Between ourselves—but mind this of course must go no farther, Mr Quiverful.’

Mr Quiverful said of course that it should not. ‘The truth is, that poor Mr Harding has hardly known his own mind. You remember our last conversation, no doubt.’

Mr Quiverful assured him that he remembered it very well indeed.

‘You will remember that I told you that Mr Harding had refused to return to the hospital.’

Mr Quiverful declared that nothing could be more distinct in his memory.

‘And acting on this refusal I suggested that you should take the hospital,’ continued Mr Slope.