thought dismally how little he was able at that
moment to "knock out" anything for himself.

"What am I to do?" said the other, who was
not listening to him. "I can't stay in the
house. The children have found it out, somehow,
and are crying about the stairs. I have
been twice to the deanery. But they won't let
me in there. I suppose they think I'd fall on
him, and, by the Lord, perhaps they are not far
out. Ah, see! There's Miss Ada coming along.
Perhaps she'd go up to poor Jenny, and try and
keep them quiet."

She was crossing the common, but a wave of
Mr. Tilney's stick brought her to them.

"True misfortune has come on us, Miss Ada,"
said Mr. Norbury. "You can guess, and won't
ask me to go into details. Would you mind
going up to poor Jenny and the children, and
talking to them and soothing them, as you know
how to do. We are in a sad way, Heaven knows.
But still your sweet voice will do something.
It comforts me even now to look at you."

"She will go, my poor friend," said Mr.
Tilney, "and be glad to do it."

She did understand perfectly, and the holy
light and deep sympathy written in her soft
eyes, made her face like one of the soft faces at
the corbels of the cathedral.

"Dear Mr. Norbury," she said, "things
will turn out better than you expect. The
darkest hour is the one before day. Keep up,
and hope, and we shall think of something."

"That's just what I was saying," said Mr.
Tilney.

But a sort of hope came into the canon's face
as he looked after her, which did not come when
Mr. Tilney made the remark.

For a long time she sat with the unhappy
family, listening to their griefs and lamentations,
gave them the same counsel as she had done to
the husband, and went away leaving comfort
behind her. She got home, ran to her room, and,
though usually plain in her dress, dressed herself
in her best and most attractive way, with flowers
even, and set off softly. The sisters above, in
their rooms, with a chaos of dresses all out on the
floor, choosing, cutting, tearing, saw her from
their windows, and were filled with curiosity.

"What can she be at?" they said, spitefully.
"Do you know, I shouldn't be surprised if she
was after that young Whitaker. Just what she
would do; try her demure sitting-in-the-corner
tricks on him. If she does it on the dinner-day,
I declare. I'll get mamma to pack her out of the
room at once."

Ada had no such unholy or ungenerous
purpose in her head. She tripped across the Close
softly, and made straight for the old substantial
high-roofed building, which, within a wall, and
watched over by tall gloomy trees (the curacies
of innumerable rooks, passing rich on starvation
stipends), was the deanery.

CHAPTER XVIII. AN ANGEL'S INTERCESSION.

MRS. RIDLEY had been talking to him the
night before about what she called "the Norbury
scandal," and expressed her wishes very strongly.
She was to be of the next party to Truncheon,
fixed for the following Christmas. "We must
really oblige Sir Thomas in some way," she said.
"They are so nice to us."

That morning the imperious lawyer doctor had
been with him. "My dear dean, it can't be
overlooked any longer. It's a crying scandal.
I wonder that you yourself, now, a man of piety
and all that, don't see it."

"Of course," said the dean, "it is very bad.
But my heart bleeds for the poor wretch, who
has no real vice in him, you know. Then,
Topham, think of the children."

"Well, it's quite for you and the chapter. If
you're content, I am. Only I give you fair
warning, you may be hauled into a Spiritual
Court before you can look about you. To tell
you the truth, dean, I am astonished how you
can be content to look on and tolerate such
things." By working on this view, he gradually
brought the dean round, who, with a sigh, said
he supposed it must be done, but that it was a
hard case for the unfortunate creature.

Mr. Dean, tall, smooth-headed, neatly black
placid, was in his study, and at his study-table.
The morning papers were about the room, an
old room, with long narrow windows that ran
to the ground, and were crossed with innumerable
small divisions, and through which was a
view of a sort of Queen Anne's garden, and of
the trees where the curate rooks lived. He had
just began a letter to Sir Thomas or Sir William,
who was such a friend of his. He had got so
far as this:

"Deanery House, Thursday.
"My dear Sir Thomas. Owing to some very
gross scandals, which I have hitherto not been
able to reach, I have been compelled to require the
resignation of one of my canons here. Hitherto
he has successfully set me at defiance. But I
have just discovered such convincing proofs of
his behaviour, that I can delay no longer. When
I was last at your house, I was greatly pleased
with one of your sons, a youth, as it appeared
to me, of exceedingly modest and engaging
manners. Let me, my dear Sir Thomas, show
my esteem for you, by—"

At this point a servant entered. "A lady,
sir, to see you."

"A lady," said the dean, looking up. " Who?
What lady?"

"Miss Millwood, I think she said, sir."

The dean waved her off with his pen. ("One
of that Tilney set!" was passing through his
mind.) " I am engaged—quite impossible."

"She was very pressing, sir, and I think she
has some business."

Ada's soft voice was heard behind. "Dear
Mr. Dean, if you would spare me five minutes,
Forgive me for intruding on you."

The effect of Ada's appearance had wrought
upon the servant, and it now wrought upon the
dean.

"O, of course, Miss Millwood. Glad to see
you. Come in. Sit down. Busy, you see.
Letters, letters, letters. One can't be dean and
shirk the duties. Well, now," said Mr. Dean,