glided in and out, oddly enough, from behind clumps of trees, and
across meadow lands.

They attracted John's attention. "Those can't be boats, surely. Is
there water there?"

"To be sure, or you would not see the sails. It is the Severn;
though at this distance you can't perceive it; yet it is deep enough
too, as you may see by the boats it carries. You would hardly
believe so, to look at it here--but I believe it gets broader and
broader, and turns out a noble river by the time it reaches the
King's Roads, and forms the Bristol Channel."

"I've seen that!" cried John, with a bright look. "Ah, I like the
Severn."

He stood gazing at it a good while, a new expression dawning in his
eyes. Eyes in which then, for the first time, I watched a thought
grow, and grow, till out of them was shining a beauty absolutely
divine.

All of a sudden the Abbey chimes burst out, and made the lad start.

"What's that?"

"Turn again, Whittington, Lord Mayor of London," I sang to the bells;
and then it seemed such a commonplace history, and such a very low
degree of honour to arrive at, that I was really glad I had forgotten
to tell John the story. I merely showed him where, beyond our garden
wall, and in the invisible high road that interposed, rose up the