after this that the little circumstance to which I have
alluded took place.
    During the afternoon service, Mr. Benson became aware that the large
Bradshaw pew was no longer unoccupied. In a dark corner Mr. Bradshaw's white
head was to be seen, bowed down low in prayer. When last he had worshipped
there, the hair on that head was iron-grey, and even in prayer he had stood
erect, with an air of conscious righteousness sufficient for all his wants, and
even some to spare with which to judge others. Now, that white and hoary head
was never uplifted; part of his unobtrusiveness might, it is true, be attributed
to the uncomfortable feeling which was sure to attend any open withdrawal of the
declaration he had once made, never to enter the chapel in which Mr. Benson was
minister again; and as such a feeling was natural to all men, and especially to
such a one as Mr. Bradshaw, Mr. Benson instinctively respected it, and passed
out of the chapel with his household, without ever directing his regards to the
obscure place where Mr. Bradshaw still remained immovable.
    From this day Mr. Benson felt sure that the old friendly feeling existed
once more between them, although some time might elapse before any circumstance
gave the signal for a renewal of their intercourse.
 

                                 Chapter XXXIII

                            A Mother to Be Proud Of

Old people tell of certain years when typhus fever swept over the country like a
pestilence; years that bring back the remembrance of deep sorrow - refusing to
be comforted - to many a household; and which those whose beloved passed through
the fiery time unscathed, shrink from recalling: for great and tremulous was the
anxiety - miserable the constant watching for evil symptoms; and beyond the
threshold of home a dense cloud of depression hung over society at large. It
seemed as if the alarm was proportionate to the previous light-heartedness of
fancied security - and indeed it was so; for, since the days of King Belshazzar,
the solemn decrees of Doom have ever seemed most terrible when they awe into
silence the merry revellers of life. So it was this year to which I come in the
progress of my story.
    The summer had been unusually gorgeous. Some had complained of the steaming
heat, but others had pointed to the lush vegetation, which was profuse and
luxuriant. The early autumn was wet and cold, but people did not regard it, in
contemplation of some proud rejoicing of the nation, which filled every
newspaper and gave food to every tongue. In Eccleston these rejoicings were
greater than in most places; for, by the