his
wife as he stood at the door,--"unnecessarily urgent, as I must say
I thought at the time." If Mrs. Crawley could have spoken out her
thoughts about Mr. Thumble at that moment, her words would, I think,
have surprised her husband.

At breakfast there was hardly a word spoken. Mr. Crawley took his
crust and eat it mournfully,--almost ostentatiously. Jane tried and
failed, and tried to hide her failure, failing in that also. Mrs
Crawley made no attempt. She sat behind her teapot, with her hands
clasped and her eyes fixed. It was as though some last day had come
upon her,--this, the first Sunday of her husband's degradation.
"Mary," he said to her, "why do you not eat?"

"I cannot," she replied, speaking not in a whisper, but in words
which would hardly get themselves articulated. "I cannot. Do not ask
me."

"For the honour of the lord, you will want the strength which bread
alone can give you," he said, intimating to her that he wished her to
attend the service.

"Do not ask me to be there, Josiah. I cannot. It is too much for me."

"Nay, I will not press it," he said. "I can go alone." He uttered no
word expressive of a wish that his daughter should attend the church;
but when the moment came, Jane accompanied him. "What shall I do,
mamma?" she said, "if I find I cannot bear it?" "Try to bear it," the
mother said. "Try for his sake. You are stronger than I am."

The tinkle of the church bell was heard at the usual time, and Mr
Crawley, hat in hand, stood ready to go forth. He had heard nothing
of Mr. Thumble, but had made up his mind that Mr. Thumble would not
trouble him. He had taken the precaution to request his churchwarden
to be early at the church, so that Mr. Thumble might encounter no
difficulty. The church was very near to the house, and any vehicle
arriving might have been seen had Mr. Crawley watched closely. But no
one had cared to watch Mr. Thumble's arrival at the church. He did not
doubt that Mr. Thumble would be at the church. With reference to the
school, he had had some doubt.

But just as he was about to start he heard the clatter of a gig. Up
came Mr. Thumble to the door of the parsonage, and having come down
from his gig was about to enter the house as though it were his own.
Mr. Crawley greeted him in the pathway, raising his hat from his head,
and expressing a wish that Mr. Thumble might not feel himself fatigued
with his drive. "I will not ask you into my poor house," he said,
standi