disposed to think themselves better than their fellow-townsfolks,
though they are small in number and not specially thriving in their
circumstances.

At every interval of ten years, when the census is taken, the
population of Dillsborough is always found to have fallen off in
some slight degree. For a few months after the publication of the
figures a slight tinge of melancholy comes upon the town. The
landlord of the Bush Inn, who is really an enterprising man in his
way and who has looked about in every direction for new sources of
business, becomes taciturn for a while and forgets to smile upon
comers; Mr. Ribbs, the butcher, tells his wife that it is out of
the question that she and the children should take that
long-talked-of journey to the sea-coast; and Mr. Gregory Masters,
the well-known old-established attorney of Dillsborough, whispers
to some confidential friend that he might as well take down his
plate and shut up his house. But in a month or two all that is
forgotten, and new hopes spring up even in Dillsborough; Mr.
Runciman at the Bush is putting up new stables for hunting-horses,
that being the special trade for which he now finds that there is
an opening; Mrs. Ribbs is again allowed to suggest Mare-Slocumb;
and Mr. Masters goes on as he has done for the last forty years,
making the best he can of a decreasing business.

Dillsborough is built chiefly of brick, and is, in its own way,
solid enough. The Bush, which in the time of the present landlord's
father was one of the best posting inns on the road, is not only
substantial, but almost handsome. A broad coach way, cut through
the middle of the house, leads into a spacious, well-kept, clean
yard, and on each side of the coach way there are bay windows