ing for
a while, and looked round about the room as though lost in thought.
"Let me see what further he writes to me," he then said; and after
that he continued the letter slowly to the end. "Nay, my child, you
were in error in saying that he wrote not about you. 'Tis in the
writing of you he has put some real heart into his words. He writes
as though his home would be welcome to you."

"And does he not make St Ewold's welcome to you, papa?"

"He makes me welcome to accept it,--if I may use the word after the
ordinary and somewhat faulty parlance of mankind."

"And you will accept it,--of course?"

"I know not that, my dear. The acceptance of a cure of souls is
a thing not to be decided on in a moment,--as is the colour of a
garment or the shape of a toy. Nor would I condescend to take this
thing from the archdeacon's hands, if I thought that he bestowed it
simply that the father of his daughter-in-law might no longer be
accounted poor."

"Does he say that, papa?"

"He gives it as a collateral reason, basing his offer first on the
kindly expressed judgment of one who is no more. Then he refers to
the friendship of the dean. If he believed that the judgment of his
late father-in-law in so weighty a matter were the best to be relied
upon of all that were at his command, then he would have done well to
trust to it. But in such a case he should have bolstered up a good
ground for action with no collateral supports which are weak,--and
worse than weak. However, it shall have my best consideration,
whereunto I hope that wisdom will be given to me where only such
wisdom can be had."

"Josiah," said his wife to him, when they were alone, "you will not
refuse it?"

"Not willingly,--not if it may be accepted. Alas! you need not urge
me, when the temptation is so strong!"

CHAPTER LXXXIII

Mr. Crawley Is Conquered

It was more than a week before the archdeacon received a reply from
Mr. Crawley, during which time the dean had been over to Hogglestock
more than once, as had also Mrs. Arabin and Lady Lufton the
younger,--and there had been letters written without end, and the
archdeacon had been nearly beside himself. "A man who pretends to
conscientious scruples of that kind is not fit to have a parish," he
said to his wife. His wife understood what he meant, and I trust that
the reader may also understand it. In the ordinary cutting of blocks
a very fine razor is not an appropriate instrument. The archdeacon