and the bees were flying to and fro, seeking out the few flowers of the
autumn upon the hillside. The fern upon the uplands, just behind the
hollow, was beginning to die, and its rich red-brown hue showed that it
was ready to be cut and carried away for fodder; but a squatter from some
other hill-hut had trespassed upon Stephen's old domain. Except this one
man, the whole tableland was deserted; and so silent was it that the
rustle of his own feet through the fading ferns sounded like other
footsteps following him closely. The sheep were not yet driven down into
the valleys, and they and the wild ponies stood and stared boldly at the
solitary boy, without fleeing from his path, as if they had long since
forgotten how the bilberry gatherers had delighted in frightening them.
Stephen was too grave and manlike to startle them into memory of it, and
he plodded on mile after mile with the three notes in his pocket and his
hand closed upon them, pondering deeply with what words he should speak
to the unknown clergyman at Danesford.

When he reached Danesford, he found it a very quiet, sleepy little
village, with a gleaming river flowing through it placidly, and such
respectable houses and small clean cottages as put to shame the dwellings
at Botfield. So early was it yet, that the village children were only
just going to school; and the biggest boy turned back with Stephen to the
gate of the Rectory. Stephen had never seen so large and grand a mansion,
standing far back from the road, in a park, through which ran a carriage
drive up to a magnificent portico. He stole shyly along a narrow side
path to the back door, and even there was afraid of knocking; but when
his low single rap was answered by a good-tempered-looking girl, not
much older than Martha, his courage revived, and he asked, in a
straightforward and steady manner, if he could see the parson. At which
the servant laughed a little, and, after inquiring his name, said she
would see if Mr. Lockwood could spare time to speak to him.