and bushes, close to the bank of the brook.

A chest which he kept in the cow-shed, and which bore traces of the
fire in the old house, had been brought down to serve as an Altar,
and it was laid over, for want of anything better, with one of poor
Mrs. Kenton's best table-cloths, which Patience had always thought
too good for use.

The next thing was to meet the rest of the scanty congregation at the
entrances of the wood, and guide them to the spot. This was safely
done, Goody Grace knew the way, and had guided one of the old Elmwood
maid servants whom she had managed to shelter for the night. Mrs.
Lightfoot was there with Mrs. Rivett, her daughter, elder son, and a
grave-looking man servant, Mr. Henshaw, a Barbados merchant, with his
wife, and a very worn battered shabby personage, but unmistakably a
gentleman of quality, and wounded in the wars, for he was so lame
that the merchant had to help him over the rough paths.

It was a wonderful Whitsun-day morning that none of the little party
could ever forget. The sunrise could not be seen in that deep,
narrow place, but the sky was of a strange pale shining blue, and the
tender young green of the trees overhead was touched with gold, the
glades of the wood were intensely blue with hyacinths, and with all
sorts of delicate greens twined above in the bushes over them. A
wild cherry, all silver white, was behind their Altar, the green
floor was marbled with cuckoo flowers and buttercups, and the clear
little stream whose voice murmured by was fringed with kingcups and
forget-me-nots. The scents were of the most delicious dewy
freshness; and as to the sounds! Larks sang high up in the sky, wood
pigeons cooed around, nightingales, thrushes, every bird of the wood