message boys whom Rumour seems to
supply for the purpose. Barchester is twenty miles from Silverbridge
by road, and more than forty by railway. I doubt whether any one was
commissioned to send the news along the actual telegraph, and yet Mrs
Proudie knew it before four o'clock. But she did not know it quite
accurately. "Bishop," she said, standing at her husband's study door.
"They have committed that man to gaol. There was no help for them
unless they had forsworn themselves."

"Not forsworn themselves, my dear," said the bishop, striving, as was
usual with him, by some meek and ineffectual word to teach his wife
that she was occasionally led by her energy into error. He never
persisted in the lessons when he found, as was usual, that they were
taken amiss.

"I say forsworn themselves!" said Mrs. Proudie; "and now what do you
mean to do? This is Thursday, and of course the man must not be
allowed to desecrate the church of Hogglestock by performing the
Sunday services."

"If he has been committed, my dear, and is in prison--"

"I said nothing about prison, bishop."

"Gaol, my dear."

"I say they have committed him to gaol. So my informant tells me.
But of course all the Plumstead and Framley set will move heaven and
earth to get him out, so that he may be there as a disgrace to the
diocese. I wonder how the dean will feel when he hears of it! I do
indeed. For the dean, though he is an idle, useless man, with no
church principles, and no real piety, still he has a conscience. I
think he has a conscience."

"I'm sure he has, my dear."

"Well;--let us hope so. And if he has a conscience, what must be his
feelings when he hears that this creature whom he has brought into
the diocese has been committed to gaol along with common felons."

"Not with felons, my dear; at least, I should think not."

"I say with common felons! A downright robbery of twenty pounds,
just as though he had broken into the bank! And so he did, with
sly artifice, which is worse in such hands than a crowbar. And now
what are we to do? Here is Thursday, and something must be done
before Sunday for the souls of those poor benighted creatures at
Hogglestock." Mrs. Proudie was ready for the battle, and was even now
sniffing the blood afar-off. "I believe it's a hundred and thirty
pounds a year," she said, before the bishop had collected his
thoughts sufficiently for a reply.

"I think we must find out, first of all, whether he is really to