ler bird rose
from the grass beside the road and soared upward, singing with all its
little might until it was a fluttering speck against the sky. Hephzy
watched it, her eyes shining.

"I believe," she cried, excitedly, "I do believe that is a skylark. Do
you suppose it is?"

"A lark, yes, lady," said our driver.

"A lark, a real skylark! Just think of it, Hosy. I've heard a real lark.
Well, Hephzibah Cahoon, you may never get into a book, but you're livin'
among book things every day of your life. 'And singin' ever soars and
soarin' ever singest.' I'd sing, too, if I knew how. You needn't be
frightened--I sha'n't try."

The meadows ended at the foot of another hill, a real one this time.
At our left, crowning the hill, a big house, a mansion with towers and
turrets, rose above the trees. Hephzy whispered to me.

"You don't suppose THAT is the rectory, do you, Hosy?" she asked, in an
awestricken tone.

"If it is we may as well go back to London," I answered. "But it
isn't. Nothing lower in churchly rank than a bishop could keep up that
establishment."

The driver settled our doubts for us.

"The Manor House, sir," he said, pointing with his whip. "The estate
begins here, sir."

The "estate" was bordered by a high iron fence, stretching as far as
we could see. Beside that fence we rode for some distance. Then another
turn in the road and we entered the street of a little village, a
village of picturesque little houses, brick or stone always--not a frame
house among them. Many of the roofs were thatched. Flowers and climbing
vines and little gardens everywhere. The village looked as if it had
been there, just as it was, for centuries.

"This is Mayberry, sir," said our driver. "That is the rectory, next the
church."

We could see the church tower and the roof, but the rectory was not yet
visible to our eyes. We turned in between two of the houses, larger and
more pretentious than the rest. The driver alighted and opened a big
wooden gate. Before us was a driveway, shaded by great elms and bordered
by rose hedges. At the end of the driveway was an old-fashioned,
comfortable looking, brick house. Vines hid the most of the bricks.
Flower beds covered its foundations. A gray-haired old gentleman stood
in the doorway.

This was the rectory we had come to see and the gray-haired gentleman
was the Reverend Mr. Cole, the rector.

"My soul!" whispered Hephzy, looking aghast at the spacious grounds, "we
can never