hind his back, strolled slowly away by
one of the paths.

"Papa," said she, "it was impossible to help coming in the same
carriage with Mr. Slope; it was quite impossible. I had promised to
come with them before I dreamt of his coming, and afterwards I could
not get out of it without explaining and giving rise to talk. You
weren't at home, you know. I couldn't possibly help it." She said
all this so quickly that by the time her apology was spoken she was
quite out of breath.

"I don't know why you should have wished to help it, my dear," said
her father.

"Yes, Papa, you do. You must know, you do know all the things they
said at Plumstead. I am sure you do. You know all the archdeacon
said. How unjust he was; and Mr. Arabin too. He's a horrid man, a
horrid odious man, but--"

"Who is an odious man, my dear? Mr. Arabin?"

"No; but Mr. Slope. You know I mean Mr. Slope. He's the most odious
man I ever met in my life, and it was most unfortunate my having to
come here in the same carriage with him. But how could I help it?"

A great weight began to move itself off Mr. Harding's mind. So, after
all, the archdeacon with all his wisdom, and Mrs. Grantly with all her
tact, and Mr. Arabin with all his talent, were in the wrong. His own
child, his Eleanor, the daughter of whom he was so proud, was not to
become the wife of a Mr. Slope. He had been about to give his sanction
to the marriage, so certified had he been of the fact, and now he
learnt that this imputed lover of Eleanor's was at any rate as much
disliked by her as by any one of the family. Mr. Harding, however, was
by no means sufficiently a man of the world to conceal the blunder he
had made. He could not pretend that he had entertained no suspicion;
he could not make believe that he had never joined the archdeacon in
his surmises. He was greatly surprised, and gratified beyond measure,
and he could not help showing that such was the case.

"My darling girl," said he, "I am so delighted, so overjoyed. My own
child; you have taken such a weight off my mind."

"But surely, Papa, _you_ didn't think--"

"I didn't know what to think, my dear. The archdeacon told me
that--"

"The archdeacon!" said Eleanor, her face lighting up with passion.
"A man like the archdeacon might, one would think, be better employed
than in traducing his sister-in-law and creating bitterness between a
father and his daughter!"

"He didn't mean to do that, Eleanor."

"What did he me