He did not go home immediately. He had a commission to execute in the town, and went to do it. It took him about an hour, which brought it to five o’clock. In returning through the Boundaries he encountered Roland Yorke, just released from that bane of his life, the office, for the day. Arthur told him how near he had been to losing the Cathedral. “By Jove!” uttered Roland, flying into one of his indignant fits. “A nice dean he is! He’d deserve to lose his own place, if he had done it.” “Well, the danger is over for the present. I say, Yorke, does Galloway talk much about it?” “Not he,” answered Roland. “He’s as sullen and crabbed as any old bear. I often say to Jenkins that he is in a temper with himself for having sent you away, and I don’t care if he hears me. There’s an awful amount to do since you went. I and Jenkins are worked to death. And there’ll be the busiest time of all the year coming on soon, with the autumn rents and leases. I shan’t stop long in it, I know!” Smiling at Roland’s account of being “worked to death,” for he knew how much the assertion was worth, Arthur continued his way. Roland continued his, and, on entering his own house, met Constance Channing leaving it. He exchanged a few words of chatter with her, though it struck him that she looked unusually sad, and then found his way to the presence of his mother. “What an uncommonly pretty girl that Constance Channing is!” quoth he, in his free, unceremonious fashion. “I wonder she condescends to come here to teach the girls!” “I think I shall dismiss her, Roland,” said Lady Augusta. “I expect she’ll dismiss herself, ma’am, without waiting for you to do it, now William Yorke has found bread and cheese, and a house to live in,” returned Roland, throwing himself at full length on a sofa. “Then you expect wrong,” answered Lady Augusta. “If Miss Channing leaves, it will be by my dismissal. And I am not sure but I shall do it,” she added, nodding her head. “What for?” asked Roland, lazily. “It is not pleasant to retain, as instructress to my children, one whose brother is a thief.” Roland tumbled off the sofa, and rose up with a great cry--a cry of passionate anger, of aroused indignation. “What?” he thundered. “Good gracious! are you going mad?” uttered my lady. “What is Arthur Channing to you, that you should take up his cause in this startling way upon every possible occasion?” “He is this to me--that he has nobody else to stand up for him,” stuttered Roland, so excited as to impede his utterance. “We were both in the same office, and the shameful charge might have been cast upon me, as it was cast upon him. It was mere chance. Channing is as innocent of it as you, mother; he is as innocent as that precious dean, who has been wondering whether he shall dismiss him from the Cathedral. A charitable lot you all are!”