It was more than a week before the archdeacon received a reply from Mr. Crawley, during which time the dean had been over at Hogglestock more than once, as had also Mrs. Arabin and Lady Lufton the younger,—and there had been letters written without end, and the archdeacon had been nearly beside himself. "A man who pretends to conscientious¹ scruples² of that kind is not fit to have a parish," he had said to his wife. His wife understood what he meant, and I trust that the reader may also understand it. In the ordinary cutting of blocks a very fine razor is not an appropriate instrument. The archdeacon, moreover, loved the temporalities of the Church as temporalities. The Church was beautiful to him because one man by interest might have a thousand a year, while another man equally good, but without interest, could only have a hundred. And he liked the men who had the interest a great deal better than the men who had it not. He had been willing to admit this poor perpetual curate, who had so long been kept out in the cold, within the pleasant circle which was warm with ecclesiastical good things, and the man hesitated,—because of scruples, as the dean told him! "I always button up my pocket when I hear of scruples," the archdeacon said.

But at last Mr. Crawley condescended³ to accept St. Ewolds. "Reverend and dear sir," he said in his letter.
 

    For the personal benevolence⁴ of the offer made to me in your letter of the –––– instant, I beg to tender you my most grateful thanks; as also for your generous kindness to me, in telling me of the high praise bestowed⁵ upon me by a gentleman who is now no more,—whose character I have esteemed⁶ and whose good opinion I value. There is, methinks, something inexpressibly dear to me in the recorded praise of the dead. For the further instance of the friendship of the Dean of Barchester, I am also thankful.

    Since the receipt of your letter I have doubted much as to my fitness for the work you have proposed to

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