rable
(for though he was not an eminent Grecian, he was the brother of a Whig
lord); and I think the eyes must have remained dry, because he had small
delicate womanish hands adorned with ruffles, and, instead of laying them
on the girls' heads, just let them hover over each in quick succession,
as if it were not etiquette to touch them, and as if the laying on of
hands were like the theatrical embrace--part of the play, and not to be
really believed in. To be sure there were a great many heads, and the
Bishop's time was limited. Moreover, a wig can, under no circumstances,
be affecting, except in rare cases of illusion; and copious lawn-sleeves
cannot be expected to go directly to any heart except a washerwoman's.

I know, Ned Phipps, who knelt against me, and I am sure made me behave
much worse than I should have done without him, whispered that he thought
the Bishop was a 'guy', and I certainly remember thinking that Mr.
Prendergast looked much more dignified with his plain white surplice and
black hair. He was a tall commanding man, and read the Liturgy in a
strikingly sonorous and uniform voice, which I tried to imitate the next
Sunday at home, until my little sister began to cry, and said I was
'yoaring at her'.

Mr. Tryan sat in a pew near the pulpit with several other clergymen. He
looked pale, and rubbed his hand over his face and pushed back his hair
oftener than usual. Standing in the aisle close to him, and repeating the
responses with edifying loudness, was Mr. Budd, churchwarden and
delegate, with a white staff in his hand and a backward bend of his small
head and person, such as, I suppose, he considered suitable to a friend
of sound religion. Conspicuous in the gallery, too, was the tall figure
of Mr. Dempster, whose professional avocations rarely allowed him to
occupy his place at church.

'There's Dempster,' said Mrs. Linnet to her daughter Mary, 'looking more
respectable than usual, I declare. He's got a fine speech by heart to
make to the Bishop, I'll answer for it. But he'll be pretty well
sprinkled with snuff before service is over, and the Bishop won't be able
to listen to him for sneezing, that's one comfort.'

At length the last stage in the long ceremony was over, the large
assembly streamed warm and weary into the open afternoon sunshine, and
the Bishop retired to the Parsonage, where, after honouring Mrs. Crewe's
collation, he was to give audience to the delegates and Mr. Tryan on the
gre