her cheeks glowed, her eyes shone, and she knew that she was happy. They
were on their way to Littlemire, where Mr. Moxon lived--a poor clergyman
with whom young Musgrave was reading. Almost as soon as they were clear
of the village they struck into a green ride through the beeches, and
cut off a great angle of the high-road, coming out again on a furzy
opening dotted with old oaks, where the black pigs of the cottagers
would by and by feast and grow fat on their common rights. It was a
lovely, damp, perilous spot, haunted by the ghost of fever and ague. The
soft, vivid turf was oozy there, and the long-rooted stones were clothed
with wet, rusted moss. The few cottages of the hamlet wore deep hoods of
thatch, and stood amongst prosperous orchards; one of them, a little
larger than the rest, being the habitation of Mr. Moxon, the vicar of
Littlemire, whose church, dame-school, and income were all of the same
modest proportions as his dwelling. He had an invalid wife and no
attraction for resident pupils, but he was thankful when he could get
one living not too far off. Young Musgrave walked from Brook twice a
week--a long four miles--to read with him.

The lad was in the vicar's parlor when Mr. Carnegie and Bessie Fairfax
stopped at the gate. He came out with flushed brow and ruffled hair to
keep Bessie company and hold the doctor's horse while he went up stairs
with Mr. Moxon to visit his wife. That room where she lay in pain often,
in weakness always, was a mean, poorly-furnished room, with a window in
the thatch, and just a glimpse of heaven beyond, but that glimpse was
all reflected in the blessedness of her peaceful face. Mr. Moxon's
threadbare coat hung loosely on his large lean frame, like the coat of a
poor, negligent gentleman, such as he was. He had the reputation of
being a capital scholar, but he had not made the way in the world that
had been expected of him. He was vicar of Littlemire when the Reverend
Geoffry Fairfax came into the Forest, and he was vicar of Littlemire