er now: dear, dear papa, do
speak to me."

Mr Harding could not well speak now, for the warm tears were running
down his cheeks like rain in May, but he held his child close to his
heart, and squeezed her hand as a lover might, and she kissed his
forehead and his wet cheeks, and lay upon his bosom, and comforted him
as a woman only can do.

"My own child," he said, as soon as his tears would let him speak, "my
own, own child, why should you too be unhappy before it is necessary?
It may come to that, that we must leave this place, but till that time
comes, why should your young days be clouded?"

"And is that all, papa? If that be all, let us leave it, and have
light hearts elsewhere: if that be all, let us go. Oh, papa, you and
I could be happy if we had only bread to eat, so long as our hearts
were light."

And Eleanor's face was lighted up with enthusiasm as she told her
father how he might banish all his care; and a gleam of joy shot
across his brow as this idea of escape again presented itself, and
he again fancied for a moment that he could spurn away from him the
income which the world envied him; that he could give the lie to that
wielder of the tomahawk who had dared to write such things of him in
_The Jupiter_; that he could leave Sir Abraham, and the archdeacon,
and Bold, and the rest of them with their lawsuit among them, and
wipe his hands altogether of so sorrow-stirring a concern. Ah, what
happiness might there be in the distance, with Eleanor and him in some
small cottage, and nothing left of their former grandeur but their
music! Yes, they would walk forth with their music books, and their
instruments, and shaking the dust from off their feet as they went,
leave the ungrateful place. Never did a poor clergyman sigh for a warm
benefice more anxiously than our warden did now to be rid of his.

"Give it up, papa," she said again, jumping from his knees and
standing on her feet before him, looking boldly into his face; "give
it up, papa."

Oh, it was sad to see how that momentary gleam of joy passed away;
how the look of hope was dispersed from that sorrowful face, as the
remembrance of the archdeacon came back upon our poor warden, and he
reflected that he could not stir from his now hated post. He was as
a man bound with iron, fettered with adamant: he was in no respect a
free agent; he had no choice. "Give it up!" Oh if he only could:
what an easy way that were out of all his troubles!

"