After that she did not have the heart to ask him to stay, and therefore she went with him.  As they passed down the stairs and out of the doors she was astonished to find how weak were his footsteps—­how powerless he was against the slightest misadventure.  On this very day he would have tripped at the upward step at the cathedral door had she not been with him.  ‘Oh, papa,’ she said ’indeed, indeed, you should not come here alone.’  Then he apologised for his little stumble with many words and much shame, assuring her that anybody might trip on an occasion.  It was purely an accident; and though it was a comfort to have had her arm, he was sure that he would have recovered himself even had he been alone.  He always, he said, kept quite close to the wall, so that there might be no mistake—­no possibility of an accident.  All this he said volubly, but with confused words, in the covered stone passage leading into the transept.  And, as he thus spoke, Mrs Grantly made up her mind that her father should never again go to the cathedral alone.  He never did go again to the cathedral—­alone.

When they returned to the deanery, Mr Harding was fluttered, weary, and unwell.  When his daughter left him for a few minutes he told Mrs Baxter in confidence of the story of his accident, and his great grief that his daughter should have seen it.  ’Laws amercy, sir, it was a blessing she was with you,’ said Mrs Baxter; ‘it was, indeed, Mr Harding.’  Then Mr Harding had been angry, and spoke almost crossly to Mrs Baxter; but, before she left the room, he found an opportunity of begging her pardon—­not in a set speech to that effect, but by a little word of gentle kindness, which she had understood perfectly.  ‘Papa,’ said Mrs Grantly to him as soon as she ha succeeded in getting both Posy and Mrs Baxter out of the room—­against the doing of which, Mr Harding had manoeuvred with all his little impotent skill—­’Papa, you must promise that you will not go to the cathedral again alone, till Eleanor comes home.’  When he heard the sentence he looked at her with blank misery in his eyes.  He made not attempt at remonstrance.  He begged for no respite.  The word had gone forth, and he knew that it must be obeyed.  Though he would have hidden the signs of his weakness had he been able, he would not condescend to plead that he was strong.  ’If you think it wrong, my dear, I will not go alone,’ he said.  ’Papa, I do; indeed I do.  Dear papa, I would not hurt you by saying it if I did not know that I am right.’  He was sitting with his hand upon the table, and, as she spoke to him, she put her hand upon his, caressing it.  ‘My dear,’ he said, ‘you are always right.’