the roadside completed his Spartan breakfast. His next step was to
examine his surroundings. "From the top of this hill," said Lynde, "I
shall probably be able to see where I am, if that will be any comfort to
me."

It was only fifty or sixty rods to the crown of the hill, where the
road, viewed from below, seemed abruptly to come to an end against the
sky. On gaining the summit, Lynde gave an involuntary exclamation of
surprise and delight. At his feet in the valley below, in a fertile
plain walled in on all sides by the emerald slopes, lay the loveliest
village that ever was seen. Though the road by which he had approached
the eminence had been narrow and steep, here it widened and descended by
gentle gradations into the valley, where it became the main street of
the village--a congregation of two or possibly three hundred houses,
mostly cottages with gambrel and lean-to roofs. At the left of the
village, and about an eighth of a mile distant, was an imposing red
brick building with wings and a pair of octagon towers. It stood in a
forest of pines and maples, and appeared to be enclosed by a high wall
of masonry. It was too pretentious for an almshouse, too elegant for a
prison; it was as evidently not a school-house, and it could not be an
arsenal. Lynde puzzled over it a moment, and then returned for his
saddle, which he slung across his back, holding it by a stirrup-strap
brought over either shoulder.

"If Mary has got a conscience," muttered Lynde, "it would prick her if
she could see me now. I must be an affecting spectacle. In the village
they won't know whether I am the upper or the lower half of a centaur.
They won't know whether to rub me down and give me a measure of oats, or
to ask me in to breakfast."