am told that she has been educated infinitely more than most of
the young ladies in the neighbourhood," said Mr. Harding.

"I believe that her papa has taught her Greek; and I suppose she has
learned something of French at that school in Silverbridge."

"Then the kitchen-maid theory is sufficiently disposed of," said Mr
Harding, with mild triumph.

"You know what I mean, papa. But the fact is, that it is impossible
to deal with men. They will never be reasonable. A marriage such as
this would be injurious to Henry; but it will not be ruinous; and as
to disinheriting him for it, that would be downright wicked."

"I think so," said Mr. Harding.

"But the archdeacon will look at it as though it would destroy Henry
and Edith altogether, while you speak of it as though it were the
best thing in the world."

"If the young people love each other, I think it would be the best
thing in the world," said Mr. Harding.

"But, papa, you cannot but think that his father's wish should go for
something," said Mrs. Grantly, who, desirous as she was on the one
side to support her son, could not bear that her husband should, on
the other side, be declared to be altogether in the wrong.

"I do not know, my dear," said Mr. Harding; "but I do think, that if
the two young people are fond of each other, and if there is anything
for them to live upon, it cannot be right to keep them apart. You
know, my dear, she is the daughter of a gentleman." Mrs. Grantly upon
this left her father almost brusquely, without speaking another word
on the subject; for, though she was opposed to the vehement anger of
her husband, she could not endure the proposition now made by her
father.

Mr. Harding was at this time living all alone in the deanery. For some
few years the deanery had been his home, and as his youngest daughter
was the dean's wife, there could no more comfortable resting-place
for the evening of his life. During the last month or two the days
had gone tediously with him; for he had had the large house all to
himself, and he was a man who did not love solitude. It is hard to
conceive that the old, whose thoughts have been all thought out,
should ever love to live alone. Solitude is surely for the young,
who have time before them for the execution of schemes, and who can,
therefore, take delight in thinking. In these days the poor old man
would wander about the rooms, shambling from one chamber to another,
and would feel ashamed when the