ked to the ladies of
gardens, and cottages, and a little of books, seemed deeply interested
in the studies and progress of the grandson Thornberry, who evidently
idolised him; and in due course his Grace was engaged in economical
speculations with Job himself, who was quite pleased to find a priest as
liberal and enlightened as he was able and thoroughly informed. An hour
before midnight they separated, though the archbishop attended them to
the hall.

Mrs. Thornberry's birthday was near at hand, which Job always
commemorated with a gift. It had commenced with some severe offering,
like "Paradise Lost," then it fell into the gentler form of Tennyson,
and, of late, unconsciously under the influence of his wife, it had
taken the shape of a bracelet or a shawl.

This evening, as he was rather feeling his way as to what might please
her most, Mrs. Thornberry embracing him, and hiding her face on his
breast, murmured, "Do not give me any jewel, dear Job. What I should
like would be that you should restore the chapel here."

"Restore the chapel here! oh, oh!" said Job Thornberry.

CHAPTER XC

The archbishop called at Hurstley House the next day. It was a visit
to Mr. Thornberry, but all the family were soon present, and clustered
round the visitor. Then they walked together in the gardens, which
had become radiant under the taste and unlimited expenditure of Mrs.
Thornberry; beds glowing with colour or rivalling mosaics, choice
conifers with their green or purple fruit, and rare roses with their
fanciful and beauteous names; one, by the by, named "Mrs. Penruddock,"
and a very gorgeous one, "The Archbishop."

As they swept along the terraces, restored to their pristine comeliness,
and down the green avenues bounded by copper beeches and ancient yews,
where men were sweeping away every leaf and twig that had fallen in the
night and marred the consummate order, it must have been difficult
for the Archbishop of Tyre not to recall the days gone by, when this
brilliant and finished scene, then desolate and neglected, the abode of
beauty and genius, yet almost of penury, had been to him a world of deep
and familiar interest. Yes, he was walking in the same glade where he
had once pleaded his own cause with an eloquence which none of his most
celebrated sermons had excelled. Did he think of this? If he did, it
was only to wrench the thought from his memory. Archbishops who are
yet young, who are resolved to be cardinals, a