the beautiful Vale of Ayrton, and a clear stream ran through the valley
at the bottom of Mrs. Trevor's orchard. Eric loved this stream, and was
always happy as he roamed by its side, or over the low green hills and
scattered dingles, which lent unusual loveliness to every winding of its
waters. He was allowed to go about a good deal by himself, and it did
him good. He grew up fearless and self-dependent, and never felt the
want of amusement. The garden and orchard supplied him a theatre for
endless games and romps, sometimes with no other companion than his
cousin and his dog, and sometimes with the few children of his own age
whom he knew in the hamlet. Very soon he forgot all about India; it only
hung like a distant golden haze on the horizon of his memory. When asked
if he remembered it, he would say thoughtfully, that in dreams and at
some other times, he saw a little child, with long curly hair, running
about in a little garden, near a great river, in a place where the air
was very bright. But whether the little boy was himself or his brother
Vernon, whom he had never seen, he couldn't quite tell.

But above all, it was happy for Eric that his training was religious and
enlightened. With Mrs. Trevor and her daughter, religion was not a
system but a habit--not a theory, but a continued act of life. All was
simple, sweet, and unaffected about their charity and their devotions.
They loved God, and they did all the good they could to those around
them. The floating gossip and ill-nature of the little village never
affected them; it melted away insensibly in the presence of their
cultivated minds; and so friendship with them was a bond of union among
all, and from the vicar to the dairyman every one loved and respected
them, asked their counsel, and sought their sympathy.

They called themselves by no sectarian name, nor could they have told to
what "party" they belonged. They troubled themselves with no theories of