The warden winced, and put his hand to his forehead and felt bewildered.
"Attorney Finney has been there this morning," continued Bunce, "and by his looks I guess he is not so well pleased as he once was, and it has got abroad somehow that the archdeacon has had down great news from London, and Handy and Moody are both as black as devils; and I hope," said the man, trying to assume a cheery tone, "that things are looking up, and that there'll be an end soon to all this stuff which bothers your reverence so sorely."
"Well, I wish there may be, Bunce."
"But about the news, your reverence?" said the old man, almost whispering.
Mr. Harding walked on, and shook his head impatiently. Poor Bunce little knew how he was tormenting his patron.
"If there was anything to cheer you, I should be so glad to know it," said he, with a tone of affection which the warden in all his misery could not resist.
He stopped, and took both the old man's hands in his. "My friend," said he, "my dear old friend, there is nothing: there is no news to cheer me—God's will be done:" and two small hot tears broke away from his eyes and stole down his furrowed cheeks.
"Then God's will be done," said the other solemnly, "but they told me that there was good news from London, and I came to wish your reverence joy; but God's will be done;" and so the warden again walked on, and the bedesman looking wistfully after him, and receiving no encouragement to follow, returned sadly to his own abode.
For a couple of hours the warden remained thus in the garden, now walking, now standing motionless on the turf, and then, as his legs got weary, sitting unconsciously on the garden seats, and then walking again. And Eleanor, hidden behind
