"I do struggle. I am struggling. But it makes one feel so lonely in this great house. Ah, me! I often wish, Mr. Dean, that it had pleased Providence to have left me in some humble parsonage, where duty would have been easier than it is here. But I will not trouble you with all that. What are we to do, Mr. Dean, about this poor Mr. Crawley?"
"Mr. Crawley is a very old friend of mine, and a very dear friend."
"Is he? Ah! A very worthy man, I am sure, and one who has been much tried by undeserved adversities."
"Most severely tried, my lord."
"Sitting among the potsherds, like Job; has he not, Mr. Dean? Well; let us hope that all that is over. When this accusation about the robbery was brought against him, I found myself bound to interfere."
"He has no complaint to make on that score."
"I hope not. I have not wished to be harsh, but what could I do, Mr. Dean? They told me that the civil authorities found the evidence so strong against him that it could not be withstood."
"It was very strong."
"And we thought that he should at least be relieved, and we sent for Dr. Tempest, who is his rural dean." Then the bishop, remembering all the circumstances of that interview with Dr. Tempest,—as to which he had ever felt assured that one of the results of it was the death of his wife, whereby there was no longer any "we" left in the palace of Barchester,—sighed piteously, looking up at the dean with hopeless face.
"Nobody doubts, my lord, that you acted for the best."