Mary's seat at Stirling, of
which I had read. Thence, one could see a goodly sweep of country.
First, close below, flowed the Avon--Shakspeare's Avon--here a narrow,
sluggish stream, but capable, as we at Norton Bury sometimes knew to
our cost, of being roused into fierceness and foam. Now it slipped on
quietly enough, contenting itself with turning a flour-mill hard by,
the lazy whirr of which made a sleepy, incessant monotone which I was
fond of hearing.

From the opposite bank stretched a wide green level, called the
Ham--dotted with pasturing cattle of all sorts. Beyond it was a second
river, forming an arch of a circle round the verdant flat. But the
stream itself lay so low as to be invisible from where we sat; you
could only trace the line of its course by the small white sails that
glided in and out, oddly enough, from behind clumps of trees, and
across meadow lands.

They attracted John's attention. "Those can't be boats, surely. Is
there water there?"

"To be sure, or you would not see the sails. It is the Severn; though
at this distance you can't perceive it; yet it is deep enough too, as
you may see by the boats it carries. You would hardly believe so, to
look at it here--but I believe it gets broader and broader, and turns
out a noble river by the time it reaches the King's Roads, and forms
the Bristol Channel."

"I've seen that!" cried John, with a bright look. "Ah, I like the
Severn."

He stood gazing at it a good while, a new expression dawning in his
eyes. Eyes in which then, for the first time, I watched a thought
grow, and grow, till out of them was shining a beauty absolutely divine.

All of a sudden the Abbey chimes burst out, and made the lad start.

"What's that?"

"Turn again, Whittington, Lord Mayor of London," I sang to the bells;
and then it seemed such a commonplace history, and such a very low
degree of honour to arrive at, that I was really glad I had forgotten
to tell John the story. I merely showed him where, beyond our garden
wall, and in the invisible high road that interposed, rose up the grim
old Abbey tower.

"Probably this garden belonged to the Abbey in ancient time--our
orchard is so fine. The monks may have planted it; they liked fruit,
those old fellows."

"Oh! did they!" He evidently did not quite comprehend, but was trying,
without asking, to find out what I referred to. I was almost ashamed,
lest he might think I wanted to show off my superior knowl