d the Doctor, rising up impetuously from his chair.

"Then I do not understand the position, Dr. Wortle. That is all I can
say."

"To my thinking, Mr. Puddicombe, I never came across a better man than Mr.
Peacocke in my life."

"I cannot make comparisons. As to the best man I ever met in my life I
might have to acknowledge that even he had done wrong in certain
circumstances. As the matter is forced upon me, I have to express my
opinion that a great sin was committed both by the man and by the woman.
You not only condone the sin, but declare both by your words and deeds
that you sympathise with the sin as well as with the sinners. You have no
right to expect that the Bishop will sympathise with you in that;--nor can
it be but that in such a country as this the voices of many will be loud
against you."

"And yours as loud as any," said the Doctor, angrily.

"That is unkind and unjust," said Mr. Puddicombe. "What I have said, I
have said to yourself, and not to others; and what I have said, I have
said in answer to questions asked by yourself." Then the Doctor apologised
with what grace he could. But when he left the house his heart was still
bitter against Mr. Puddicombe.

He was almost ashamed of himself as he rode back to Bowick,--first,
because he had condescended to ask advice, and then because, after having
asked it, he had been so thoroughly scolded. There was no one whom Mr.
Puddicombe would admit to have been wrong in the matter except the Doctor
himself. And yet though he had been so counselled and so scolded, he had
found himself obliged to apologize before he left the house! And, too, he
had been made to understand that he had better not rush into print.
Though the 'Broughton Gazette' should come to the attack again and again,
he must hold his peace. That reference to Mr. Puddicombe's dirty boot had
convinced him. He could see the thoroughly squalid look of the boot that
had been scraped in vain, and appreciate the wholesomeness of the
unadulterated mud. There was more in the man than he had ever
acknowledged before. There was a consistency in him, and a courage, and
an honesty of purpose. But there was no softness of heart. Had there
been a grain of tenderness there, he could not have spoken so often as he
had done of Mrs. Peacocke without expressing some grief at the unmerited
sorrows to which that poor lady had been subjected.

His own heart melted with ruth as he thought, while ridin