devils. And I
hope," said the man, trying to assume a cheery tone, "that things are
looking up, and that there'll be an end soon to all this stuff which
bothers your reverence so sorely."

"Well, I wish there may be, Bunce."

"But about the news, your reverence?" said the old man, almost
whispering.

Mr Harding walked on, and shook his head impatiently. Poor Bunce
little knew how he was tormenting his patron.

"If there was anything to cheer you, I should be so glad to know it,"
said he, with a tone of affection which the warden in all his misery
could not resist.

He stopped, and took both the old man's hands in his. "My friend,"
said he, "my dear old friend, there is nothing; there is no news to
cheer me;--God's will be done": and two small hot tears broke away
from his eyes and stole down his furrowed cheeks.

"Then God's will be done," said the other solemnly; "but they told
me that there was good news from London, and I came to wish your
reverence joy; but God's will be done;" and so the warden again walked
on, and the bedesman, looking wistfully after him and receiving no
encouragement to follow, returned sadly to his own abode.

For a couple of hours the warden remained thus in the garden, now
walking, now standing motionless on the turf, and then, as his legs
got weary, sitting unconsciously on the garden seats, and then walking
again. And Eleanor, hidden behind the muslin curtains of the window,
watched him through the trees as he now came in sight, and then again
was concealed by the turnings of the walk; and thus the time passed
away till five, when the warden crept back to the house and prepared
for dinner.

It was but a sorry meal. The demure parlour-maid, as she handed the
dishes and changed the plates, saw that all was not right, and was
more demure than ever: neither father nor daughter could eat, and the
hateful food was soon cleared away, and the bottle of port placed upon
the table.

"Would you like Bunce to come in, papa?" said Eleanor, thinking that
the company of the old man might lighten his sorrow.

"No, my dear, thank you, not to-day; but are not you going out,
Eleanor, this lovely afternoon? don't stay in for me, my dear."

"I thought you seemed so sad, papa."

"Sad," said he, irritated; "well, people must all have their share of
sadness here; I am not more exempt than another: but kiss me, dearest,
and go now; I will, if possible, be more sociable when you return."

And