ean, and was therefore
much shocked. Eleanor had not known him so well; nevertheless, she
was sufficiently acquainted with his person and manners to feel
startled and grieved also at the tidings she now received. "I will
go at once to the deanery," said Mrs. Grantly; "the archdeacon, I am
sure, will be there. If there is any news to send you, I will let
Thomas call before he leaves town." And so the carriage drove off,
leaving Eleanor and her baby with Mary Bold.

Mrs. Grantly had been quite right. The archdeacon was at the deanery.
He had come into Barchester that morning by himself, not caring to
intrude himself upon Eleanor, and he also immediately on his arrival
had heard of the dean's fit. There was, as we have before said, a
library or reading-room connecting the cathedral with the dean's
house. This was generally called the bishop's library, because a
certain bishop of Barchester was supposed to have added it to the
cathedral. It was built immediately over a portion of the cloisters,
and a flight of stairs descended from it into the room in which the
cathedral clergymen put their surplices on and off. As it also opened
directly into the dean's house, it was the passage through which that
dignitary usually went to his public devotions. Who had or had not the
right of entry into it, it might be difficult to say; but the people
of Barchester believed that it belonged to the dean, and the clergymen
of Barchester believed that it belonged to the chapter.

On the morning in question most of the resident clergymen who
constituted the chapter, and some few others, were here assembled,
and among them as usual the archdeacon towered with high authority.
He had heard of the dean's fit before he was over the bridge which
led into the town, and had at once come to the well-known clerical
trysting place. He had been there by eleven o'clock, and had remained
ever since. From time to time the medical men who had been called
in came through from the deanery into the library, uttered little
bulletins, and then returned. There was, it appears, very little
hope of the old man's rallying, indeed no hope of anything like a
final recovery. The only question was whether he must die at once
speechless, unconscious, stricken to death by his first heavy fit, or
whether by due aid of medical skill he might not be so far brought
back to this world as to become conscious of his state and enabled to
address one prayer to his Maker before he