besides these, were houses which would not have been known to be shops,
but for a faded array of peppermints and gingerbread, which shone, or
rather twinkled, before the eyes of village children through panes of
greenish glass. Of course there was a forge and a wheel-wright's shop;
and, equally of course, a public-house--there had been two, there was
now but one, which could readily be known by a huge swinging sign-board,
on which was the decaying likeness of a "Dun Cow," supposed to be
feeding in a green meadow; but the verdure had long since melted away,
and all except the animal herself was a chaos of muddy tints. The "Dun
Cow," (a sad misnomer for a place where milk was the last beverage the
visitors would ever think of calling for), was to many the centre both
of attraction and detraction, for here quarrels were hatched and
characters picked to pieces. The landlord had long since been dead, of
the usual publican's malady--drink fever. The landlady carried on the
business which had carried her husband off, and seemed to thrive upon
it, for there was never lack of custom at the "Dun Cow." Just a
stone's-throw from this public-house, on the crest of the hill along
which wound the village street, was the church, a simple structure, with
a substantial square tower and wide porch. It had been restored with
considerable care and taste by the present rector, the internal
appearance being sufficiently in accordance with the proprieties of
ecclesiastical architecture to satisfy all but the over-fastidious, and
yet not so ornamental as to lead the mind to dwell rather on the earthly
and sensuous than on the heavenly and spiritual. Behind the church was
the rectory, a quaint old building, with pointed gables, deep bay-
windows, and black beams of oak exposed to view. It had been added to,
here and there, as modern wants and improvements had made expansion
necessary. The garden was lovely, for every one at the rectory loved
flowers: they loved them for their own intrinsic beauty; they loved them
as God's books, full of lessons of his skill and tender care; they loved
them as resting-places for the eye when wearied with sights of disorder
and sin; they loved them as ministering comfort to the sick, the aged,
and the sorrowful to whom they carried them.

Such was the village of Waterland. The parish extended two miles north
and south of the church, a few farms and labourers' cottages at wide
intervals containing nearly