the brickmakers when he started.  He was simply desirous of reading again Dr Tempest’s letter, and of considering it, in some spot where no eye could see him.  He walked away with long steps, regarding nothing—­neither the ruts in the dirty lane, nor the young primroses which were fast showing themselves on the banks, nor the gathering clouds which might have told him of the coming rain.  He went on for a couple of miles, till he had nearly reached the outskirts of the colony of Hoggle End, and then he sat himself down upon a gate.  He had not been there a minute before a few slow drops began to fall, but he was altogether too much wrapped up in his thoughts to regard the rain.  What answer should he make to this letter from the man from Silverbridge?

The position of his own mind in reference to his own guilt or his own innocence was very singular.  It was simply the truth that he did not know how the cheque had come to him.  He did know that he had blundered about it most egregiously, especially when he had averred that this cheque for twenty pounds had been identical with a cheque for another sum which had been given to him by Mr Soames.  He had blundered since, in saying that the dean had given it to him.  There could be no doubt as to this, for the dean had denied that he had done so.  And he had come to think it very possible that he had indeed picked the cheque up, and had afterwards used it, having deposited it by some strange accident—­not knowing then what he was doing, or what was the nature of the bit of paper in his hand—­with the notes which he had accepted from the dean with so much reluctance, and with such an agony of spirit.  In all these thoughts of his own doings, and his own position, he almost admitted to himself his own insanity, his inability to manage his own affairs with that degree of rational sequence which is taken for granted as belonging to a man when he is made subject to criminal laws.  As he puzzled his brain in his efforts to create a memory as to the cheque, and succeeded in bringing to his mind a recollection that he had once known something about the cheque—­that the cheque had at one time been the subject of a thought and a resolution—­he admitted to himself that in accordance with all law and all reason he must be regarded as a thief.  He had taken and used and spent that which he ought to have known was not his own—­which he would have known not to be his own but for some terrible incapacity with which God had inflicted him.  What then must be the result?  His mind was clear enough about this.  If the jury should see everything and know everything—­as he would wish that they should do; and if the bishop’s commission, and the bishop himself, and the Court of Arches with its judge, could see and know everything; and if so seeing and so knowing they could act with clear honesty and perfect wisdom—­what would they do?  They would declare of him that he was not a thief, only because he was so muddy-minded, so addle-pated