ad. I daresay he's had everything very
comfortable about him. And a man ought to be grateful for that,
though very few men ever are."

Mr. Quiverful's predecessor at the Hospital, old Mr. Harding, whose
halcyon days in Barchester had been passed before the coming of the
Proudies, was in bed playing cat's-cradle with Posy seated on the
counterpane, when the tidings of Mrs. Proudie's death were brought to
him by Mrs. Baxter. "Oh, sir," said Mrs. Baxter, seating herself on
a chair by the bed-side. Mr. Harding liked Mrs. Baxter to sit down,
because he was almost sure on such occasions to have the advantage
of a prolonged conversation.

"What is it, Mrs. Baxter?"

"Oh, sir!"

"Is anything the matter?" And the old man attempted to raise himself
in his bed.

"You mustn't frighten grandpa," said Posy.

"No, my dear; and there isn't nothing to frighten him. There isn't
indeed, Mr. Harding. They're all well at Plumstead, and when I heard
from the missus at Venice, everything was going on well."

"But what is it, Mrs. Baxter?"

"God forgive all her sins--Mrs. Proudie ain't no more." Now there had
been a terrible feud between the palace and the deanery for years, in
carrying on which the persons of the opposed households were wont to
express themselves with eager animosity. Mrs. Baxter and Mrs. Draper
never spoke to each other. The two coachmen each longed for an
opportunity to take the other before a magistrate for some breach of
the law of the road in driving. The footmen abused each other, and
the grooms occasionally fought. The masters and mistresses contented
themselves with simple hatred. Therefore it was not surprising that
Mrs. Baxter in speaking of the death of Mrs. Proudie, should remember
first her sins.

"Mrs. Proudie dead!" said the old man.

"Indeed, she is, Mr. Harding," said Mrs. Baxter, putting both her hands
together piously. "We're just grass, ain't we, sir! and dust and clay
and flowers of the field?" Whether Mrs. Proudie had most partaken of
the clayey nature or of the flowery nature, Mrs. Baxter did not stop
to consider.

"Mrs. Proudie dead!" said Posy, with a solemnity that was all her own.
"Then she won't scold the poor bishop any more."

"No, my dear; she won't scold anybody any more; and it will be a
blessing for some, I must say. Everybody is always so considerate in
this house, Miss Posy, that we none of us know nothing about what
that is."

"Dead!" said Mr. Harding again. "I think, if