the
water lay in deep gutters on the sides of the gravel walks in the garden
of Broxton Parsonage; the great Provence roses had been cruelly tossed
by the wind and beaten by the rain, and all the delicate-stemmed border
flowers had been dashed down and stained with the wet soil. A melancholy
morning--because it was nearly time hay-harvest should begin, and
instead of that the meadows were likely to be flooded.

But people who have pleasant homes get indoor enjoyments that they would
never think of but for the rain. If it had not been a wet morning, Mr.
Irwine would not have been in the dining-room playing at chess with his
mother, and he loves both his mother and chess quite well enough to pass
some cloudy hours very easily by their help. Let me take you into that
dining-room and show you the Rev. Adolphus Irwine, Rector of Broxton,
Vicar of Hayslope, and Vicar of Blythe, a pluralist at whom the severest
Church reformer would have found it difficult to look sour. We will
enter very softly and stand still in the open doorway, without awaking
the glossy-brown setter who is stretched across the hearth, with her
two puppies beside her; or the pug, who is dozing, with his black muzzle
aloft, like a sleepy president.

The room is a large and lofty one, with an ample mullioned oriel window
at one end; the walls, you see, are new, and not yet painted; but the
furniture, though originally of an expensive sort, is old and scanty,
and there is no drapery about the window. The crimson cloth over the
large dining-table is very threadbare, though it contrasts pleasantly
enough with the dead hue of the plaster on the walls; but on this cloth
there is a massive silver waiter with a decanter of water on it, of the
same pattern as two larger ones that are propped up on the sideboard
with a coat of arms conspicuous in their centre. You suspect at once
that the inhabitants of this room have inherited more blood than wealth,
and would not be surprised to find that Mr. Irwine had a finely cut
nostril and upper lip; but at present we can only see that he has a
broad flat back and an abundance of powdered hair, all thrown backward
and tied behind with a black ribbon--a bit of conservatism in costume
which tells you that he is not a young man. He will perhaps turn round
by and by, and in the meantime we can look at that stately old lady, his
mother, a beautiful aged brunette, whose rich-toned complexion is well
set off by the complex wrapping