ted from
his meditations by that through which he passed. Lovely woodlands, just
bursting into the delicate green of spring; deep, still streams, flowing
through meadows studded with cattle; forest-roads shadowed with stately
trees, and so little frequented, that the green turf spread from hedge
to hedge, and the primroses and bluebells sprung up almost in the
pathway. All these composed a picture of rural loveliness which is
peculiar to England, and chiefly to that part of England where Harbury
is situated. Captain Rothesay scarcely noticed it, until, pausing
to consider his track, he saw in the distance a church upon a hill.
Beautiful and peaceful it looked--its ancient tower rising out against
the sky, and the evening sun shining on its windows and gilded vane.

"That must surely be my landmark," thought Captain Rothesay; and he made
an inquiry to that effect of a man passing by.

"Ay, ay, measter," was the answer, in rather unintelligible Doric;
"thot bees Harbury Church, as sure as moy name's John Dent; and thot red
house--conna ye see't?--thot's our parson's."

Prompted by curiosity, Rothesay observed, "Oh, Mr. Gwynne's. He is quite
a young man, I believe? Do you like him, you good folks hereabout?"

"Some on us dun, and some on us dunna. He's not much of parson though;
he wunna send yer to sleep wi' his long preachings. But oi say the mon's
a good mon: he'll coom and see yer when you're bad, an' talk t' ye by
th' hour; though he dunna talk oot o' th' Bible. But oi'm a lad o' t'
forest, and 'll be a keeper some toime. That's better nor book-larning."

Captain Rothesay had no will to listen to more personal revelations from
honest John Dent; so he said, quickly, "Perhaps so, my good fellow."
Then added, "Mr. Gwynne has a mother living with him, I believe. What
sort of person is she?"

"Her's a good-enough lady, oi reckon: only a bit too proud. Many's
the blanket her's gen to poor folk; and my owd mother sees her every
week--but her's never shook hands wi' her yet. Eh, measter, won ye
go?"

This last remark was bellowed after Captain Rothesay, whose horse had
commenced a sudden canter, which ceased not until its owner dismounted
at the parsonage-gate.

This gate formed the boundary of the garden, and a most lovely spot
it was. It extended to the churchyard, with which it communicated by a
little wicket-door. You passed through beautiful parterres and alleys,
formed of fragrant shrubs, to the spot

Wh