"I remember it well;—as if it were yesterday."
"And in that way there is a great difference. My father, who was physically a much stronger man, did not succumb so easily. But the likeness is in their characters. There is the same mild sweetness, becoming milder and sweeter as they increased in age;—a sweetness that never could believe much evil, but that could believe less, and still less, as the weakness of age came on them. No amount of evidence would induce your father to think that Mr. Crawley stole that money." This was said of course before the telegram had come from Venice.
"As far as that goes I agree with him," said Mrs. Grantly, who had her own reasons for choosing to believe Mr. Crawley to be innocent. If your son, my dear, is to marry a man's daughter, it will be as well that you should at least be able to say that you do not believe that man to be a thief."
"That is neither here nor there," said the archdeacon. "A jury must decide it."
"No jury in Barsetshire shall decide it for me," said Mrs. Grantly.
"I'm sick of Mr. Crawley, and I'm sorry I spoke of him," said the archdeacon. "But look at Mrs. Proudie. You'll agree that she was not the most charming woman in the world."
"She certainly was not," said Mrs. Grantly, who was anxious to encourage her husband, if she could do so without admitting anything which might injure herself afterwards.
"And she was at one time violently insolent to your father. And even the bishop thought to trample upon him. Do you remember the bishop's preaching against your father's chaunting? If I ever forget it!" And the archdeacon slapped his closed fist against his open hand.
"Don't, dear; don't. What is the good of being violent now?"
"Paltry little fool! It will be long enough before such a chaunt as that is heard in any English cathedral again." Then Mrs. Grantly got up and kissed her husband, but he, somewhat negligent of the kiss, went on with his speech. "But your father remembers nothing of it, and if there was a single human being who shed a tear in Barchester for that woman, I believe it was your father. And it was the same with mine. It came to that at last, that I could not bear to speak to him of any shortcoming as to one of his own clergymen. I might as well have pricked him with a penknife. And yet they say men become heartless and unfeeling as they grow old!"
"Some do, I suppose."
"Yes; the heartless and unfeeling do. As the bodily strength fails and the power of control becomes lessened, the natural aptitude of
