rtheless, the place looked like a church, and I can hardly say
so much for all the modern edifices which have been built in my days
towards the glory of God. It looked like a church, and not the less
so because in walking up the passage between the pews the visitor
trod upon the brass plates which dignified the resting-places of the
departed Dales of old.

Below the church, and between that and the village, stood the
vicarage, in such position that the small garden of the vicarage
stretched from the churchyard down to the backs of the village
cottages. This was a pleasant residence, newly built within the last
thirty years, and creditable to the ideas of comfort entertained by
the rich collegiate body from which the vicars of Allington always
came. Doubtless we shall in the course of our sojourn at Allington
visit the vicarage now and then, but I do not know that any further
detailed account of its comforts will be necessary to us.

Passing by the lane leading to the vicarage, the church, and to the
house, the high road descends rapidly to a little brook which runs
through the village. On the right as you descend you will have seen
the "Red Lion," and will have seen no other house conspicuous in any
way. At the bottom, close to the brook, is the post-office, kept
surely by the crossest old woman in all those parts. Here the road
passes through the water, the accommodation of a narrow wooden bridge
having been afforded for those on foot. But before passing the
stream, you will see a cross street, running to the left, as had run
that other lane leading to the house. Here, as this cross street
rises the hill, are the best houses in the village. The baker lives
here, and that respectable woman, Mrs Frummage, who sells ribbons,
and toys, and soap, and straw bonnets, with many other things too
long to mention. Here, too, lives an apothecary, whom the veneration
of this and neighbouring parishes has raised to the dignity of a
doctor. And here also, in the smallest but prettiest cottage that can
be imagined, lives Mrs Hearn, the widow of a former vicar, on terms,
however, with her neighbour the squire which I regret to say are not
as friendly as they should be. Beyond this lady's modest residence,
Allington Street, for so the road is called, turns suddenly round
towards the church, and at the point of the turn is a pretty low iron
railing with a gate, and with a covered way, which leads up to the
front door of the house which