his;--ah, how happy he had been! but it was over now; his easy
days and absence of work had been the crime which brought on him his
tribulation; his shady home was pleasant no longer; maybe it was no
longer his; the old neighbours, whose welfare had been so desired by
him, were his enemies; his daughter was as wretched as himself; and
even the bishop was made miserable by his position. He could never
again lift up his voice boldly as he had hitherto done among his
brethren, for he felt that he was disgraced; and he feared even to
touch his bow, for he knew how grievous a sound of wailing, how
piteous a lamentation, it would produce.

He was still sitting in the same chair and the same posture, having
hardly moved a limb for two hours, when Eleanor came back to tea, and
succeeded in bringing him with her into the drawing-room.

The tea seemed as comfortless as the dinner, though the warden, who
had hitherto eaten nothing all day, devoured the plateful of bread and
butter, unconscious of what he was doing.

Eleanor had made up her mind to force him to talk to her, but she
hardly knew how to commence: she must wait till the urn was gone, till
the servant would no longer be coming in and out.

At last everything was gone, and the drawing-room door was permanently
closed; then Eleanor, getting up and going round to her father, put
her arm round his neck, and said, "Papa, won't you tell me what it
is?"

"What what is, my dear?"

"This new sorrow that torments you; I know you are unhappy, papa."

"New sorrow! it's no new sorrow, my dear; we have all our cares
sometimes;" and he tried to smile, but it was a ghastly failure; "but
I shouldn't be so dull a companion; come, we'll have some music."

"No, papa, not tonight,--it would only trouble you tonight;" and she
sat upon his knee, as she sometimes would in their gayest moods, and
with her arm round his neck, she said: "Papa, I will not leave you
till you talk to me; oh, if you only knew how much good it would do
to you, to tell me of it all."

The father kissed his daughter, and pressed her to his heart; but
still he said nothing: it was so hard to him to speak of his own
sorrows; he was so shy a man even with his own child!

"Oh, papa, do tell me what it is; I know it is about the hospital, and
what they are doing up in London, and what that cruel newspaper has
said; but if there be such cause for sorrow, let us be sorrowful
together; we are all in all to each oth