for the moment he was happy.

As he turned a corner round by Lord Lufton's park paling, who should
he meet but his old friend Mr. Robarts, the parson of Framley,--the
parson who had committed the sin of being bail for him,--the sin,
that is, according to Mrs. Proudie's view of the matter. He was
walking with his hand still stretched out,--still crushing the
bishop, when Mr. Robarts was close upon him.

"What, Crawley! upon my word I am very glad to see you; you are
coming up to me, of course?"

"Thank you, Mr. Robarts; no, not to-day. The bishop has summoned me to
his presence, and I am on my road to Barchester."

"But how are you going?"

"I shall walk."

"Walk to Barchester. Impossible!"

"I hope not quite impossible, Mr. Robarts. I trust I shall get as
far before two o'clock; but to do so I must be on my road." Then he
showed signs of a desire to go upon his way without further parley.

"But, Crawley, do let me send you over. There is the horse and gig
doing nothing."

"Thank you, Mr. Robarts; no. I should prefer to walk to-day."

"And you have walked from Hogglestock?"

"No;--not so. A neighbour coming hither, who happened to have
business at your mill,--he brought me so far in his cart. The walk
home will be nothing,--nothing. I shall enjoy it. Good morning, Mr
Robarts."

But Mr. Robarts thought of the dirty road, and of the bishop's
presence, and of his own ideas of what would be becoming for a
clergyman,--and persevered. "You will find the lanes so very muddy;
and our bishop, you know, is apt to notice such things. Do be
persuaded."

"Notice what things?" demanded Mr. Crawley, in an indignant tone.

"He, or perhaps she rather, will say how dirty your shoes were when
you came to the palace."

"If he, or she, can find nothing unclean about me but my shoes,
let them say their worst. I shall be very indifferent. I have long
ceased, Mr. Robarts, to care much what any man or woman may say about
my shoes. Good morning." Then he stalked on, clutching and crushing
in his hand the bishop, and the bishop's wife, and the whole
diocese,--and all the Church of England. Dirty shoes, indeed! Whose
was the fault that there were in the church so many feet soiled by
unmerited poverty, and so many hands soiled by undeserved wealth? If
the bishop did not like his shoes, let the bishop dare to tell him
so! So he walked on through the thick of the mud, by no means picking
his way.

He walked fast, and he found hi