winds to wanton through it as they pleased. As I ascended, the view
enlarged--beauty became more beauteous, silence more profound. I reached
the parsonage gate, and my heart yearned to tell how much I longed to
live and die on this sequestered and most peaceful spot. The
dwelling-house was primitive and low; its long and overhanging roof was
thatched; its windows small and many. A myrtle, luxuriant as a vine,
covered its entire front, and concealed the ancient brick and wood. A
raised bank surrounded the green nest, and a gentle slope conducted to a
lawn fringed with the earliest flowers of the year. I rang the loud
bell, and a neatly dressed servant-girl gave me admittance to the house.
In a room of moderate size, furnished by a hand as old at least as the
grandsires of the present occupants, and well supplied with books, sat
the incumbent. He was a man of fifty years of age or more, tall and
gentlemanly in demeanour. His head was partly bald, and what remained of
his hair was grey almost to whiteness. He had a noble forehead, a marked
brow, and a cold grey eye. His mouth betrayed sorrow, or habitual deep
reflection, and the expression of every other feature tended to
seriousness. The first impression was unfavourable. A youth, who was
reading with the minister when I entered the apartment, was dismissed
with a simple inclination of the head, and the Rev. Walter Fairman then
pointed to a seat.

"You have had a tedious journey, Mr Stukely," began the incumbent, "and
you are fatigued, no doubt."

"What a glorious spot this is, sir!" I exclaimed.

"Yes, it is pretty," answered Mr Fairman, very coldly as I thought. "Are
you hungry, Mr Stukely? We dine early; but pray take refreshment if you
need it."