h creepers, a modern Gothic church, two much more
venerable and pious-looking inns, and a few cottages settling peacefully
around a common form the village. Here and there a cottage lurks up a lane.
These cottages are mostly inhabited by the gentle classes. Some are really
old, with great oak beams across the low ceilings, and stone-flagged
kitchens furnished with great open fireplaces where you can sit and get
scorched and covered with smoke. Some are new, built in imitation of the
old, by a mute, inglorious Adam, the village carpenter. All have long
casement windows, front gardens in which grow stocks and phlox and
sunflowers and hollyhocks and roses; and a red-tiled path leads from the
front gate to the entrance porch. Nunsmere is very quiet and restful.
Should a roisterer cross the common singing a song at half-past nine at
night, all Nunsmere hears it and is shocked--if not frightened to the
extent of bolting doors and windows, lest the dreadful drunken man should
come in.

In a cottage on the common, an old one added to by the local architect,
with a front garden and a red-tiled path, dwelt Mrs. Oldrieve in entire
happiness, and her daughter in discontent. And this was through no peevish
or disagreeable traits in Zora's nature. If we hear Guy Fawkes was fretful
in the Little-Ease, we are not pained by Guy Fawkes's lack of Christian
resignation.

When the Vicar and the Literary Man from London had gone, Zora threw open
the window and let the soft autumn air flood the room. Mrs. Oldrieve drew
her woolen shawl around her lean shoulders.

"I'm afraid you quite snubbed Mr. Rattenden, just when he was saying one of
his cleverest things."

"He said it to the wrong person, mother. I'm neither a faded life nor am I
going to be laid away in lavender. Do I look like it?"

She moved across the room, swiftly, and stood in the slanting light from
the window, offering herself for inspection. Nothing could be less like a
faded life than the magnificent, broad-hipped, full-bosomed woman that met
her mother's gaze. Her hair was auburn, her eyes brown with gold flecks,
her lips red, her cheeks clear and young. She was cast, physically, in
heroic mold, a creature of dancing blood and color and warmth. Disparaging
tea-parties called her an Amazon. The Vicar's wife regarded her as too
large and flaring and curvilinear for reputable good looks. She towered
over Nunsmere. Her presence disturbed the sedateness of the place. She was
a