CHAPTER I.

UPTON RECTORY


So quiet is the small market town of Upton, that it is difficult to
believe in the stir and din of London, which is little more than an
hour's journey from it. It is the terminus of the single line of rails
branching off from the main line eight miles away, and along it three
trains only travel each way daily. The sleepy streets have old-fashioned
houses straggling along each side, with trees growing amongst them; and
here and there, down the roads leading into the the country, which are
half street, half lane, green plots of daisied grass are still to be
found, where there were once open fields that have left a little legacy
to the birds and children of coming generations. Half the houses are
still largely built of wood from the forest of olden times that has now
disappeared; and ancient bow-windows jut out over the side causeways.
Some of the old exclusive mansions continue to boast in a breastwork of
stone pillars linked together by chains of iron, intended as a defence
against impertinent intruders, but more often serving as safe
swinging-places for the young children sent to play in the streets.
Perhaps of all times of the year the little town looks its best on a
sunny autumn morning, with its fine film of mist, when the chestnut
leaves are golden, and slender threads of gossamer are floating in the
air, and heavy dews, white as the hoar-frost, glisten in the sunshine.
But at any season Upton seems a tranquil, peaceful, out-of-the-world
spot, having no connection with busier and more wretched places.