for nothing with me. He has
told me that his allowance to me is to be withdrawn. Let him tell me
that he has reconsidered the matter."

"But he has not withdrawn it. The last quarter was paid to your
account only the other day. He does not mean to withdraw it."

"Let him tell me so; let him tell me that my power of living at
Cosby Lodge does not depend on my marriage,--that my income will be
continued to me whether I marry or no, and I'll arrange matters with
the auctioneer to-morrow. You can't suppose that I should prefer to
live in France."

"Henry, you are too hard on your father."

"I think, mother, he has been too hard upon me."

"It is you that are to blame now. I tell you plainly that that is my
opinion. If evil comes of it, it will be your own fault."

"If evil come of it, I must bear it."

"A son ought to give up something to his father;--especially to a
father so indulgent as yours."

But it was of no use. And Mrs. Grantly when she went to her bed could
only lament in her own mind over what, in discussing the matter
afterwards with her sister, she called the cross-grainedness of men.
"They are as like each other as two peas," she said, "and though each
of them wished to be generous, neither of them would condescend to be
just." Early on the following morning there was, no doubt, much said
on the subject between the archdeacon and his wife before they met
their son at breakfast; but neither at breakfast nor afterwards
was there a word said between the father and the son that had the
slightest reference to the subject in dispute between them. The
archdeacon made no more speeches in favour of land, nor did he revert
to the foxes. He was very civil to his son;--too civil by half, as
Mrs. Grantly continued to say to herself. And then the major drove
himself away in his cart, going through Barchester, so that he
might see his grandfather. When he wished his father good-by, the
archdeacon shook hands with him, and said something about the chance
of rain. Had he not better take the big umbrella? The major thanked
him courteously, and said that he did not think it would rain. Then
he was gone. "Upon his own head be it," said the archdeacon when his
son's step was heard in the passage leading to the back-yard. Then
Mrs. Grantly got up quietly and followed her son. She found him
settling himself in his dog-cart, while the servant who was to
accompany him was still at the horse's head. She went up close to
him