‘I’m giving you a great deal of trouble, Robarts,’ said the doctor; ’but then you are so much younger than I am, and I’ve an idea that you would do more for this poor man than anyone else in the diocese.’  Mr Robarts of course declared that he did not begrudge his trouble, and that he would do anything in his power for the poor man.  ’I think that you should see him again, and that you should then see Thumble also.  I don’t know whether you can condescend to be civil to Thumble.  I could not.’

‘I am not quite sure that incivility would not be more efficacious.’

’Very likely.  There are men who are deaf as adders to courtesy, but who are compelled to obedience at once by ill-usage.  Very likely Thumble is one of them; but of that you will be the best judge yourself.  I would see Crawley first, and get his consent.’

‘That’s the difficulty.’

’Then I should go without his consent, and I would see Thumble and the bishop’s chaplain Snapper.  I think you might manage just at this moment, when they will all be abashed and perplexed by this woman’s death, to arrange that simply nothing shall be done.  The great thing will be that Crawley should go on with the duty till the assizes.  If it should happen that he goes into Barchester and is acquitted, and comes back again, the whole thing will be over, and there will be no further interference in the parish.  If I were you, I think I would try it.’  Mr Robarts said that he would try it.  ’I daresay Mr Crawley will be a little stiff-necked with you.’

‘He will be very stiff-necked with me,’ said Mr Robarts.

’But I can hardly think that he will throw away the only means he has of supporting his wife and children, when he finds that there can be no occasion for his doing so.  I do not suppose that any person wishes him to throw up his work now that the poor woman has gone.’

Mr Crawley had been almost in good spirits since the last visit which Mr Thumble had made him.  It seemed as though the loss of everything in the world was in some way satisfactory to him.  He had now given up his living by his own doing, and had after a fashion acknowledged his guilt by this act.  He had proclaimed to all around him that he did not think himself to be any longer fit to perform the sacred functions of his office.  He spoke of his trial as though a verdict against him must be the result.  He knew that in going into prison he would leave his wife and children dependent on the charity of their friends—­on charity which they must condescend to accept, though he could not condescend to ask it.  And yet he was able to carry himself now with a greater show of fortitude than had been within his power when the extent of his calamity was more doubtful.  I must not ask the reader to suppose that he was cheerful.  To have been cheerful under such circumstances would have been inhuman.  But he carried his head on high, and walked firmly, and gave his orders with a clear voice.  His wife,