we were all a little sad.  I was not specially connected with the cathedral then, except through my father’—­and Mrs Arabin, as she told all this, remembered that in the days of which she was speaking she was a young mourning widow—­’but I think I can never forget the sort of harsh-toned paean of low-church trumpets with which that poor woman made her entry into the city.  She might have been more lenient, as we had never sinned by being very high.  She might, at any rate, have been more gentle with us at first.  I think we had never attempted much beyond decency, good-will and comfort.  Our comfort she utterly destroyed.  Good-will was not to her taste.  And as for decency, when I remember some things, I must say that when the comfort and good-will went, the decency went along with them.  And now she is dead!  I wonder how the bishop will get on without her.’

‘Like a house in fire, I should think,’ said Johnny.

‘Fie, Mr Eames; you shouldn’t speak in such a way on such a subject.’

Mrs Arabin and Johnny became fast friends as they journeyed home.  There was a sweetness in his character which endeared him readily to women; though, as we have seen, there was a want of something to make one woman cling to him.  He could be soft and pleasant-mannered.  He was fond of making himself useful, and was a perfect master of all those little caressing modes of behaviour in which the caress is quite impalpable, and of which most women know the value and appreciate the comfort.  By the time that they had reached Paris John had told the whole story of Lily Dale and Crosbie, and Mrs Arabin had promised to assist him, if any assistance might be in her power.

‘Of course I have heard of Lily Dale,’ she said, ’because we know the De Courcys.’  Then she turned away her face, almost blushing, as she remembered the first time that she had seen that Lady Alexandrina De Courcy whom Mr Crosbie had married.  It had been at Mr Thorne’s house at Ullathorne, and on that day she had done a thing which she had never since remembered without blushing.  But it was an old story now, and a story of which her companion knew nothing—­of which he never could know anything.  That day at Ullathorne Mrs Arabin, the wife of the Dean of Barchester, than whom there was no more discreet clerical matron in the diocese, had—­boxed a clergyman’s ears!

‘Yes,’ said John, speaking of Crosbie, ’he was a wise fellow; he knew what he was about; he married an earl’s daughter.’

’And now I remember hearing that somebody gave him a terrible beating.  Perhaps it was you?’

‘It wasn’t terrible at all,’ said Johnny.

‘Then it was you?’

‘Oh, yes; it was I.’

‘Then it was you who saved poor old Lord De Guest from the bull?’

‘Go on, Mrs Arabin.  There is no end to the grand things I’ve done.’

‘You’re quite a hero of romance.’

He bit his lip as he told himself that he was not enough of a hero.  ’I don’t know about that,’ said Johnny.  ’I think what a man ought to do in these days is to seem not to care what he eats and drinks, and to have his linen very well got up.  Then he’ll be a hero.’  But that was hard upon Lily.