he left the chamber he trusted Mr
Toogood altogether, and was very glad that he had sought his aid. He
was tired and exhausted when he reached home, as he had eaten nothing
but a biscuit or two since his breakfast; but his wife got him food
and tea, and then asked him as to his success. "Was my cousin kind to
you?"

"Very kind,--more than kind,--perhaps somewhat too pressing in his
kindness. But I find no fault. God forbid that I should. He is, I
think, a good man, and certainly has been good to me."

"And what is to be done?"

"He will write to the dean."

"I am glad of that."

"And he will be at Barchester."

"Thank God for that."

"But not as my lawyer."

"Nevertheless, I thank God that some one will be there who will know
how to give you assistance and advice."

CHAPTER XXXIII

The Plumstead Foxes

The letters had been brought into the breakfast-parlour at Plumstead
Rectory one morning, and the archdeacon had inspected them all, and
then thrown over to his wife her share of the spoil,--as was the
custom of the house. As to most of Mrs. Grantly's letters, he never
made any further inquiry. To letters from her sister, the dean's
wife, he was profoundly indifferent, and rarely made any inquiry
as to those which were directed in writing with which he was not
familiar. But there were others as to which, as Mrs. Grantly knew, he
would be sure to ask her questions if she did not show them. No note
ever reached her from Lady Harteltop as to which he was not curious,
and yet Lady Hartletop's notes very seldom contained much that was
of interest. Now, on this morning, there came a letter which, as a
matter of course, Mrs. Grantly read at breakfast, and which, she knew,
would not be allowed to disappear without inquiry. Nor, indeed, did
she wish to keep the letter from her husband. It was too important to
be so treated. But she would have been glad to gain time to think in
what spirit she would discuss the contents of the letter,--if only
such time might be allowed to her. But the archdeacon would allow her
no time. "What does Henry say, my dear?" he asked, before the
breakfast things had been taken away.

"What does he say? Well, he says--I'll give you his letter to read
by-and-by."

"And why not now?"

"I thought I'd read it again myself, first."

"But if you have read it, I suppose you know what's in it?"

"Not very clearly, as yet. However, there it is." She knew very well
that when she had