endear him to one party while they made him offensively odious to the other; but Mr Moffat could make neither friends nor enemies by his eloquence.  The Barchester roughs called him a dumb dog that could not bark, and sometimes sarcastically added that neither could he bite.  The De Courcy interest, however, was at his back, and he had also the advantage of possession.  Sir Roger, therefore, knew that the battle was not to be won without a struggle.

Dr Thorne got safely back from Silverbridge that evening, and found Mary waiting to give him his tea.  He had been called there to a consultation with Dr Century, that amiable old gentleman having so far fallen away from the high Fillgrave tenets as to consent to the occasional endurance of such degradation.

The next morning he breakfasted early, and, having mounted his strong iron-grey cob, started for Boxall Hill.  Not only had he there to negotiate the squire’s further loan, but also to exercise his medical skill.  Sir Roger having been declared contractor for cutting a canal from sea to sea, through the isthmus of Panama, had been making a week of it; and the result was that Lady Scatcherd had written rather peremptorily to her husband’s medical friend.

The doctor consequently trotted off to Boxall Hill on his iron-grey cob.  Among his other merits was that of being a good horseman, and he did much of his work on horseback.  The fact that he occasionally took a day with the East Barsetshires, and that when he did so he thoroughly enjoyed it, had probably not failed to add something to the strength of the squire’s friendship.

‘Well, my lady, how is he?  Not much the matter, I hope?’ said the doctor, as he shook hands with the titled mistress of Boxall Hill in a small breakfast-parlour in the rear of the house.  The showrooms of Boxall Hill were furnished most magnificently, but they were set apart for company; and as the company never came—­seeing that they were never invited—­the grand rooms and the grand furniture were not of much material use to Lady Scatcherd.

‘Indeed then, doctor, he’s just bad enough,’ said her ladyship, not in a very happy tone of voice; ’just bad enough.  There’s been some’at the back of his head, rapping, and rapping, and rapping; and if you don’t do something, I’m thinking it will rap him too hard yet.’

‘Is he in bed?’

’Why, yes, he is in bed; for when he was first took he couldn’t very well help hisself, so we put him to bed.  And then, he don’t seem to be quite right yet about the legs, so he hasn’t got up; but he’s got that Winterbones with him to write for him, and when Winterbones is there, Scatcherd might as well be up for any good that bed’ll do him.’