mpanion, not in the least
perceiving my depression, and complacently surveying the prospect. "Of
course it might have been clearer, but, after all, you get a very good
idea of it."

I turn my faint eyes in the same direction as his. Down on the horizon
the sullen rain-clouds are settling, and, to meet them, there stretches
a dead, colorless flat, dotted with little round trees, little
church-spires, little houses, little fields, little hedges--one of those
mappy views, that lack even the beauties of a map--the nice pink and
green and blue lines which so gayly define the boundaries of each
county.

"Very extensive, is not it?" he says, proudly; "you know you can see--"

"Seven counties!" interrupt I, sharply, snapping the words out of his
mouth. "Yes, I know; you told me."

The horses have been led away to the distant ale-house. The coach stands
forlorn and solitary on the moor. Some of us, looking at the threatening
aspect of the weather, have suggested that _we_ too should make for
shelter; but this suggestion is indignantly vetoed by Mr. Parker.

"_Rain!_ not a bit of it! It is not _thinking_ of raining! The wind!
what is the matter with the wind? Nice and fresh! Much better than one
of those muggy days, when you can hardly breathe!"

CHAPTER XLV.

The cloth is therefore laid, with the dead heather-flowers beneath it,
and the low leaden sky above. As large stones as can be found have to be
sought on the moorland road to weight it, and hinder our banquet from
flying bodily away. It is at last spread--cold lamb, cold partridges,
chickens, _mayonnaise_, cakes, pastry--they have just been arranged in
their defenceless nakedness under the eye of heaven, when the rain
begins. And, when it begins, it begins to some purpose. It deceives us
with no false hopes--with no breakings in the serried clouds--with no
flying glimpses of blue sky. Down it comes, straight, _straight_ down,
on the lamb, on the _mayonnaise_, splash into the bitter. Each of us
seizes the viand dearest to his or her heart, and tries to shelter it
beneath his or her umbrella. But in vain! The great slant storm reaches
it under the puny defense. Even Mr. Parker has to change the _form_ of
his consolation, though not the spirit. He can no longer deny that it is
raining; but what he now says is that it will not last--that it is only
a shower--that he is very glad to see it come down so hard at first, as
it is all the more certain to be soon over.