flower-bed lying amongst the dark green of the graves. The townspeople
loved to stroll down to it in the twilight, with half-stirred idle
thoughts of better things soothing away the worries and cares of the
day. A narrow meadow of glebe-land separated the churchyard from the
Rectory garden, a bank of flowers and turf sloping up to the house.
Nowhere could a more pleasant, home-like dwelling be found, lightly
covered with sweet-scented creeping plants, which climbed up to the
highest gable, and flung down long sprays of blossom-laden branches to
toss to and fro in the air. Many a weary, bedinned Londoner had felt
heart-sick at the sight of its tranquillity and peace.

The people of Upton, great and small, conformist or nonconformist, were
proud of their rector. It was no unusual sight for a dozen or more
carriages from a distance to be seen waiting at the church door for the
close of the service, not only on a Sunday morning, when custom demands
the observance, but even in the afternoon, when public worship is
usually left to servant-maids. There was not a seat to be had for love
or money, either by gentle or simple, after the reading of the Psalms
had begun. The Dissenters themselves were accustomed to attend church
occasionally, with a half-guilty sense, not altogether unpleasant, of
acting against their principles. But then the rector was always on
friendly terms with them: and made no distinction, in distributing
Christmas charities, between the poor old folks who went to church or to
chapel, Or, as it was said regretfully, to no place at all. He had his
failings; but the one point on which all Upton agreed was, that their
church and rector were the best between that town and London.

It was a hard struggle with David Chantrey, this beloved rector of
Upton, to resolve upon leaving his parish, though only for a time, when
his physicians strenuously urged him to spend two winters, and the