nsept. And, as he thus spoke, Mrs. Grantly made up her mind that
her father should never again go to the cathedral alone. He never did
go again to the cathedral--alone.

When they returned to the deanery, Mr. Harding was fluttered, weary,
and unwell. When his daughter left him for a few minutes he told Mrs
Baxter in confidence the story of his accident, and his great grief
that his daughter should have seen it. "Laws amercy, sir, it was a
blessing she was with you," said Mrs. Baxter; "it was, indeed, Mr
Harding." Then Mr. Harding had been angry, and spoke almost crossly to
Mrs. Baxter; but, before she left the room, he found an opportunity
of begging her pardon,--not in a set speech to that effect, but by a
little word of gentle kindness, which she had understood perfectly.
"Papa," said Mrs. Grantly to him as soon as she had succeeded in
getting both Posy and Mrs. Baxter out of the room,--against the doing
of which, Mr. Harding had manoeuvred with all his little impotent
skill,--"Papa, you must promise me that you will not go to the
cathedral again alone, till Eleanor comes home." When he heard the
sentence he looked at her with blank misery in his eyes. He made
no attempt at remonstrance. He begged for no respite. The word had
gone forth, and he knew that it must be obeyed. Though he would have
hidden the signs of his weakness had he been able, he would not
condescend to plead that he was strong. "If you think it wrong, my
dear, I will not go alone," he said. "Papa, I do; indeed I do. Dear
papa, I would not hurt you by saying it if I did not know that I am
right." He was sitting with his hand upon the table, and, as she
spoke to him, she put her hand upon his, caressing it. "My dear," he
said, "you are always right."

She left him again for awhile, having some business out in the city,
and he was alone in his room for an hour. What was there left to him
now in the world? Old as he was, and in some things almost childish,
nevertheless, he thought of this keenly, and some half-realised
remembrance of "the lean and slippered pantaloon" flitted across
his mind, causing him a pang. What was there left to him now in the
world? Posy and cat's-cradle! Then, in the midst of his regrets, as
he sat with his back bent in his old easy-chair, with one arm over
the shoulder of the chair, and the other hanging loose by his side,
on a sudden there came across his face a smile as sweet as ever
brightened the face of man or woman. He h