nto the clouds on the turning of a peg. As he passed along by
mead and glade, his wheel sang to him, and he sang to his wheel. It was
a daisied, daisied world.

There were buttercups and violets in it too as he sped along in the
early morning of an unforgotten Easter Sunday, drawn, so he had
shamelessly told his Miller's Daughter, by antiquarian passion to visit
the famous old parish church near which Alice was at school.
Antiquarian passion! Well, certainly it is an antiquarian passion now.

But then--how his heart beat! how his eyes shone as with burning kohl!
That there was anything to be ashamed of in this stolen ride never even
occurred to him. And perhaps there was little wrong in it, after all.
Perhaps, when the secrets of all hearts are revealed, it will come out
that the Miller's Daughter took the opportunity to meet Narcissus'
understudy,--who can tell?

But the wonderful fresh morning-scented air was a delicious fact beyond
dispute. That was sincere. Ah, there used to be real mornings then!--not
merely interrupted nights.

And it was the Easter-morning of romance. There was a sweet passionate
Sabbath-feeling everywhere. Sabbath-bells, and Sabbath-birds, and
Sabbath-flowers. There was even a feeling of restful Sabbath-cheer about
the old inn, where, at last, entering with much awe the village where
Alice nightly slept--clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
--Narcissus provided for the demands of romance by a hearty
country breakfast. A manna of blessing seemed to lie thick upon every
thing. The very ham and eggs seemed as if they had been blessed by the
Pope.

It was yet an hour to church-time, an hour usually one of spiteful
alacrity; but this morning, it seemed, in defiance of the clock, cruelly
unpunctual. After breakfast, Narcissus strolled about the town, and
inquired the way to Miss Curlpaper's school. It stood outside the little
town. It was pointed out to him in the distance, across billowy clouds
of pear and apple-blossom, making the hollow in which the town nestled
seem a vast pot-pourri jar, overflowing with newly gathered rose-leaves.

Had the Miller's Daughter been able to watch his movements, she would
have remarked that his antiquarian ardour drew him not to the church,
but to a sombre many-windowed house upon the hill.

Narcissus reconnoitred the prison-like edifice from behind a hedge, then
summoned courage to walk past with slow nonchalance. All was as dead and
dull as though Al