her
into permitting it, and I abstained from passing a certain knowing
little ash stick through the knot, and hoisting the bundle over my left
shoulder, till I was well out of the grounds.

My efforts to spare her feelings on this point, however, proved vain.
She ran to the landing-window to watch me out of sight, and had a full
view of my figure as I swaggered with a business-like gait by Isaac's
side up the first long hill, having set my hat on the back of my head
with an affectation of profuse heat, my right hand in the bee-master's
coat-pocket for support, and my left holding the stick and bundle at an
angle as showy and sailor-like as I could assume.

"And they'll just meet the Ebenezer folk coming out of chapel, ma'am!"
said our housemaid over my mother's shoulder, by way of consolation.

Our journey was up-hill, for which I was quite prepared. The blue and
purple outline of the moors formed the horizon line visible from our
gardens, whose mistiness or clearness was prophetic of the coming
weather, and over which the wind was supposed to blow with uncommon
"healthfulness." I had been there once to blow away the whooping-cough,
and I could remember that the sandy road wound up and up, but I did not
appreciate till that Sunday how tiring a steady ascent of nearly five
miles may be.

We were within sight of the church and within hearing of the bells, when
we reached a wayside trough, whose brimming measure was for ever
overflowed by as bright a rill as ever trickled down a hill-side.

"It's only the first peal," said Master Isaac, seating himself on the
sandy bank, and wiping his brows.

My well-accustomed ears confirmed his statement. The bells moved too
slowly for either the second or the third peal, and we had twenty
minutes at our disposal.

It was then that I knew (for the first but not the last time) what
refreshment for the weary a spotted handkerchief may hold. The
bee-master and I divided the sandwiches, and washed them down with
handfuls of the running rill, so fresh, so cold, so limpid, that (like
the saints and martyrs of a faith) it would convert any one to
water-drinking who did not reflect on the commoner and less shining
streams which come to us through lead pipes and in evil communication
with sewers.

We were cool and tidy by the time that the little "Tom Tinkler" bell
began to "hurry up."

"You're coming, aren't you?" said I, checked at the churchyard gate by
an instinct of some hesitat