outer woodwork and roof of the porch were
covered by a woodbine, trimmed, however, so as to leave the openings
clear. A few rickety steps, at the sides and between the cracks of
which sprouted tall blades of grass, led down to the path which
terminated in the gate. This path was distinguished by an incongruous
pavement of white limestone slabs, which were always kept carefully
clean. The gate was a rattle-boned affair, hanging feebly between two
grandfatherly old posts, which hypocritically tried to maintain an air
of solidity, though perfectly aware that they were wellnigh rotted away
at the base. The action of this gate was assisted--or more correctly
encumbered--by the contrivance of a sliding ball and chain, creating a
most dismal clatter and flap as often as it was opened. The white-washed
picket fence, scaled and patched by the weather, kept the posts in
excellent countenance; and inclosed a moderate grass-plot, adorned with
a couple of rather barren black cherry-trees, and as many firs, with
low-spread branches.

Above the house and the road rose a rugged eminence, sparely clothed
with patches of grass, brambles, and huckleberry-bushes, the gray knots
of rock pushing up here and there between. On the summit appeared
against the sky the outskirts of a sturdy forest, paradise of nuts and
squirrels. The rough road ran between rude stone-fences and straggling
apple-trees to the village, lying some two miles to the southeast. About
two hundred yards beyond the Parsonage--so Professor Valeyon's house was
called, he, in times past, having officiated as pastor of the
village--it made a sharp turn to the left around a spur of the hill,
bringing into view the tall white steeple of the village meeting-house,
relieved against the mountainous background beyond.

They dined in the Parsonage at two o'clock. At about three the professor
was wont to cross the entry to his study, take his pipe from its place
on the high wooden mantel-piece, fill it from the brown earthen-ware
tobacco-box on the table, and stepping through the window on to the
balcony, takes his place in his chair. Here he would sit sometimes till
sundown, composed in body and mind; dreaming, perhaps, over the rough
pathway of his earlier life, and facilitating the process by exhaling
long wreaths of thinnest smoke-layers from his mouth, and ever and anon
crossing and recrossing his legs.

On the present afternoon it was really very hot. Professor Valeyon,
occup