‘Psha!’ said the archdeacon, who professed that he did not at all like the letter.  ’I wonder what he would say if I sent him a month’s notice at next Michaelmas?’

‘I’m sure he would go,’ said Mrs Grantly.

‘The more fool he,’ said the archdeacon.

At this time Grace was at the parsonage in a seventh heaven of happiness.  The archdeacon was never rough to her, nor did he make any of his harsh remarks about her father in her presence.  Before her St Ewold’s was spoken of as the home that was to belong to the Crawleys for the next twenty years.  Mrs Grantly was very loving with her, lavishing upon her pretty presents, and words that were prettier than presents.  Grace’s life had hitherto been so destitute of those prettinesses and softnesses which can hardly be had without money though money alone will not purchase them, that it seemed to her now that the heavens rained graciousness upon her.  It was not that the archdeacon’s watch or her lover’s chain, or Mrs Grantly’s locket, or the little toy from Italy which Mrs Arabin brought to her from the treasures of the deanery, filled her heart with undue exaltation.  It was not that she revelled in her new delights of silver and gold and shining gems; but that the silver and gold and shining gems were constant indications to her that things had changed, not only for her, but for her father and mother, and brother and sister.  She felt now more sure than ever that she could not have enjoyed her love had she accepted her lover while the disgrace of the accusation against her father remained.  But now—­having waited till that had passed away, everything was a new happiness to her.

At last it was settled that Mr and Mrs Crawley were to come to Plumstead—­and they came. it would be too long to tell now how gradually had come about that changed state of things which made such a visit possible.  Mr Crawley had at first declared that such a thing was out of the question.  If St Ewold’s was to depend upon it St Ewold’s must be given up.  And I think that it would have been impossible for him to go direct from Hogglestock to Plumstead.  But it fell out after this wise.

Mr Harding’s curate at St Ewold’s was nominated to Hogglestock, and the dean urged upon his friend Crawley the expediency of giving up the house as quickly as he could do so.  Gradually at this time Mr Crawley had been forced into a certain amount of intimacy with the haunts of men.  He had been twice or thrice at Barchester, and had lunched with the dean.  He had been at Framley for an hour or two, and had been forced into some communication with old Mr Thorne, the squire of his new parish.  The end of this had been that he had at last consented to transfer himself and wife and daughter to the deanery for a fortnight.  He had preached one farewell sermon at Hogglestock—­not, as he told his audience, as their pastor, which he had ceased to be now for some two or three months—­but as their old and loving friend, to whom the use of