partaken of the clayey nature or of the flowery nature, Mrs. Baxter did not stop to consider.
"Mrs. Proudie dead!" said Posy, with a solemnity that was all her own. "Then she won't scold the poor bishop any more."
"No, my dear; she won't scold anybody any more; and it will be a blessing for some, I must say. Everybody is always so considerate in this house, Miss Posy, that we none of us know nothing about what that is."
"Dead!" said Mr. Harding again. "I think, if you please, Mrs. Baxter, you shall leave me for a little time, and take Miss Posy with you." He had been in the city of Barchester some fifty years, and here was one who might have been his daughter, who had come there scarcely ten years since, and who now had gone before him! He had never loved Mrs. Proudie. Perhaps he had gone as near to disliking Mrs. Proudie as he had ever gone to disliking any person. Mrs. Proudie had wounded him in every part that was most sensitive. It would be long to tell, nor need it be told now, how she had ridiculed his cathedral work, how she had made nothing of him, how she had despised him, always manifesting her contempt plainly. He had been even driven to rebuke her, and it had perhaps been the only personal rebuke which he had ever uttered in Barchester. But now she was gone; and he thought of her simply as an active pious woman, who had been taken away from her work before her time. And for the bishop, no idea ever entered Mr. Harding's mind as to the removal of a thorn. The man had lost his life's companion at that time of life when such a companion is most needed; and Mr. Harding grieved for him with sincerity.
The news went out to Plumstead Episcopi by the postman, and happened to reach the archdeacon as he was talking to his rector at the little gate leading into the churchyard. "Mrs. Proudie dead!" he almost shouted, as the postman notified the fact to him. "Impossible!"
"It be so for zartain, yer reverence," said the postman, who was proud of his news.
"Heavens!" ejaculated the archdeacon, and then hurried in to his wife. "My dear," he said—and as he spoke he could hardly deliver himself of his words, so eager was he to speak them—"who do you think is dead? Gracious heavens! Mrs. Proudie is dead!" Mrs. Grantly dropped from her hand the teaspoonful of tea that was just going into the pot, and repeated her husband's words. "Mrs. Proudie dead?" There was a pause, during which they, looked into each other's faces. "My dear, I don't believe it," said Mrs. Grantly.
But she did believe it very shortly. There were no prayers at
