Ellinor could have told them both.  They had The Times lent to them on the second day after publication by one of their friends in the Close, and Ellinor, watching till Miss Monro’s eyes were otherwise engaged, always turned with trembling hands and a beating heart to the reports of the various courts of law.  In them she found—­at first rarely—­the name she sought for, the name she dwelt upon, as if every letter were a study.  Mr. Losh and Mr. Duncombe appeared for the plaintiff, Mr. Smythe and Mr. Corbet for the defendant.  In a year or two that name appeared more frequently, and generally took the precedence of the other, whatever it might be; then on special occasions his speeches were reported at full length, as if his words were accounted weighty; and by-and-by she saw that he had been appointed a Queen’s counsel.  And this was all she ever heard or saw about him; his once familiar name never passed her lips except in hurried whispers to Dixon, when he came to stay with them.  Ellinor had had no idea when she parted from Mr. Corbet how total the separation between them was henceforward to be, so much seemed left unfinished, unexplained.  It was so difficult, at first, to break herself of the habit of constant mental reference to him; and for many a long year she kept thinking that surely some kind fortune would bring them together again, and all this heart-sickness and melancholy estrangement from each other would then seem to both only as an ugly dream that had passed away in the morning light.

The dean was an old man, but there was a canon who was older still, and whose death had been expected by many, and speculated upon by some, any time for ten years at least.  Canon Holdsworth was too old to show active kindness to any one; the good dean’s life was full of thoughtful and benevolent deeds.  But he was taken, and the other left.  Ellinor looked out at the vacant deanery with tearful eyes, the last thing at night, the first in the morning.  But it is pretty nearly the same with church dignitaries as with kings; the dean is dead, long live the dean!  A clergyman from a distant county was appointed, and all the Close was astir to learn and hear every particular connected with him.  Luckily he came in at the tag-end of one of the noble families in the peerage; so, at any rate, all his future associates could learn with tolerable certainty that he was forty-two years of age, married, and with eight daughters and one son.  The deanery, formerly so quiet and sedate a dwelling of the one old man, was now to be filled with noise and merriment.  Iron railings were being placed before three windows, evidently to be the nursery.  In the summer publicity of open windows and doors, the sound of the busy carpenters was perpetually heard all over the Close:  and by-and-by waggon-loads of furniture and carriage-loads of people began to arrive.  Neither Miss Monro nor Ellinor felt themselves of sufficient importance or station to call on the new comers, but they were