"Her form was fresher than the morning rose
When the dew wets its leaves."--THOMSON.

Pullingham-on-the-Moors is a small, untidy, picturesque little
village, situated on the side of a hill. It boasts a railway-station,
a police-barrack, a solitary hotel, and two or three well-sized shops.
It is old-fashioned, stationary, and, as a rule, hopelessly harmless,
though now and then, dissensions, based principally on religious
grounds, will arise.

These can scarcely be avoided, as one-half of the parish trips lightly
after Mr. Redmond, the vicar (who has a subdued passion for wax
candles, and a craving for floral decorations), and looks with scorn
upon the other half, as, with solemn step and slow, it descends the
high hill that leads, each Sabbath, to the "Methody" Chapel beneath.

It never grows older, this village, and never younger; is seldom cast
down or elated, surprised or demonstrative, about anything. In a
quaint, sleepy fashion, it has its dissipations, and acknowledges its
festive seasons,--such as Christmas-tide when all the shops burst
into a general bloom of colored cards, and February, when valentines
adorn every pane. It has also its fair days, when fat cattle and lean
sugar-sticks seem to be everywhere.

A marriage is reckoned an event, and causes some gossip: a birth does
not,--possibly because of the fact that it is a weekly occurrence.
Indeed, the babies in Pullingham are a "joy forever." They have their
season all the year round, and never by any chance "go out;" though I
have heard people very foolishly liken them to flowers. They grow, and
thrive, and blossom all over the place, which no doubt is greatly to
the credit of the inhabitants. Occasionally, too, some one is good
enough to cause a little pleasurable excitement by dying, but very
seldom, as the place is fatally healthy, and people live here until
they become a social nuisance, and almost wish themselves dead. There
is, I believe, some legend belonging to the country, about an old
woman who had to be shot, so aggressively old did she become; but this
is obscure.

About two miles from the town, one comes to Sartoris, the residence of
Dorian Branscombe, which runs in a line with the lands of Scrope
Royal, the property of Sir James Scrope.

Sir James is a tall, rather old-young man of thirty-two with a calm,
expressive face, kindly eyes, and a somewhat lanky figure. He has a
heart of gold, a fine estate, and----a step-sister.

Mi