stirred the mane of the dead horse, who lay a
ghastly spectacle, his head thrown back, in a pool of his own blood.
From afar, from whence nor eye nor tongue could tell, came a foul raven
croaking.

CHAPTER II.

The village of Hendred, of which Mr. Ives was the parson, lay about two
miles beyond Wancote, in a low valley nestling under a great wave of the
downs. Behind the village a chalk cliff rose white and dazzling, and the
warm red brick of the houses, the gleaming chalk, the bright tender
green of the herbage, formed one of those sunny pictures of which
Berkshire is full.

In the centre of the village rose the little church, with its square
grey tower, over which grew a magnificent creeper with crimson leaves
glowing with a wondrous richness of colour.

A stone's throw back from the road, in a high-walled garden, stood the
parsonage. The garden was rich with orchard trees and wall fruit, and
boasted in particular one golden plum that was the parson's boast and
pride. He had imported rich soil from the valleys, and in each corner of
the garden gathered little hills of leaf-mould. Mr. Ives was a notable
gardener.

Those who would see Betty Ives at her best should see her at home--at
least, so said young Mr. Robins, the rich yeoman's son, who sighed in
vain for her good graces. He was a domestic man, much given to
superintending himself, duties which were looked upon as women's
gear--"A womanish man," said the women.

On the other hand young Thornton, eldest son of Squire Thornton of
Thornton Beeches, in the neighbourhood of Wancote, gave out that to see
Mistress Betty at her best, was to see her in the hunting-field, for she
rode like a bird, and was bright and ready as a pike-staff! There was a
confusion of metaphor, but words always failed the young fellow when he
spoke of the lady who had already three times refused to be his wife.

Then Dr. Glebe, the good doctor of Wancote, in a grey bag-wig and
hunting-boots, would take a whole handful of snuff, while he swore that
Mistress Betty was only at her best by a sick-bed.

The parson laughed, and exclaimed with a tear in his eye that such a
woman as his daughter was always at her best in whatever she put her
hand to do; and the old groom Isaac assented with a chuckle, vowing that
his young lady was good all round.

The autumn was beginning, and the crimson creepers on church and wall
were at the height of their glow. Betty Ives was strolling in the
p