ery early on the following
morning,--so early that she would be at the deanery before her father
should have gone to the cathedral.

"He ought to have come over here, and not stayed there by himself,"
said the archdeacon, when his wife told him of her intention.

"It is too late to think of that now, my dear; and one can
understand, I think, that he should not like leaving the cathedral as
long as he can attend it. The truth is he does not like being out of
Barchester."

"He would be much better here," said the archdeacon. "Of course you
can have the carriage and go over. We can breakfast at eight; and if
you can bring him back with you, do. I should tell him that he ought
to come." Mrs. Grantly made no answer to this, knowing very well that
she could not bring herself to go beyond the gentlest persuasion with
her father, and on the next morning she was at the deanery by ten
o'clock. Half-past ten was the hour at which the service began. Mrs
Baxter contrived to meet her before she saw her father, and begged
her not to let it be known that any special tidings of Mr. Harding's
failing strength had been sent from the deanery to Plumstead. "And
how is my father?" asked Mrs. Grantly. "Well, then, ma'am," said
Baxter, "in one sense he's finely. He took a morsel of early lamb to
his dinner yesterday, and relished it ever so well,--only he gave
Miss Posy the best part of it. And then he sat with Miss Posy
quite happy for an hour or so. And then he slept in his chair; and
you know, ma'am, we never wakes him. And after that old Skulpit
toddled up from the hospital,"--this was Hiram's Hospital, of which
establishment, in the city of Barchester, Mr. Harding had once been
the warden and kind master, as has been told in former chronicles
of the city,--"and your papa has said, ma'am, you know, that he is
always to see any of the old men when they come up. And Skulpit is
sly, and no better than he should be, and got money from your father,
ma'am, I know. And then he had just a drop of tea, and after that I
took him his glass of port wine with my own hands. And it touched me,
ma'am, so it did, when he said, 'Oh, Mrs. Baxter, how good you are;
you know well what it is I like.' And then he went to bed. I listened
hard,--not from idle curiosity, ma'am, as you, who know me, will
believe, but just because it's becoming to know what he's about, as
there might be an accident, you know, ma'am." "You are very good,
Mrs. Baxter, very good." "