This was the ford, and on the other side was a small rustic
village, consisting of a church, two or three farm-houses with
their barns and outbuildings, and a few ancient-looking stone
cottages with thatched roofs. But the church was the main
thing; it was a noble building with a very fine tower, and
from its size and beauty I concluded that it was an ancient
church dating back to the time when there was a passion in the
West Country and in many parts of England of building these
great fanes even in the remotest and most thinly populated
parishes. In this I was mistaken through having seen it at a
distance from the other side of the ford after the sun had
set.

Never, I thought, had I seen a lovelier village with its old
picturesque cottages shaded by ancient oaks and elms, and the
great church with its stately tower looking dark against the
luminous western sky. Dismounting again I stood for some time
admiring the scene, wishing that I could make that village my
home for the rest of my life, conscious at the same time that
is was the mood, the season, the magical hour which made it
seem so enchanting. Presently a young man, the first human
figure that presented itself to my sight, appeared, mounted on
a big carthorse and leading a second horse by a halter, and
rode down into the pool to bathe the animals' legs and give
them a drink. He was a sturdy-looking young fellow with a
sun-browned face, in earth-coloured, working clothes, with a
small cap stuck on the back of his round curly head; he
probably imagined himself not a bad-looking young man, for
while his horses were drinking he laid over on the broad bare
backs and bending down studied his own reflection in the