ying
together under the shade of trees, I must needs call to mind the summer
season of old England, the cool sea air, the soft-dropping showers, the
fields so thick with grasses, and skirted with hedge-rows like green
walls, the trees and shrubs all clean and moist, and the vines and
creepers hanging over walls and gateways, very plenteous and beautiful
to behold. Ah me I often in these days do I think of Hilton Grange,
with its great oaks, and cool breezy hills and meadows green the summer
long. I shut mine eyes, and lo! it is all before me like a picture; I
see mine uncle's gray hairs beneath the trees, and my good aunt standeth
in the doorway, and Cousin Oliver comes up in his field-dress, from the
croft or the mill; I can hear his merry laugh, and the sound of his
horse's hoofs ringing along the gravel-way. Our sweet Chaucer telleth
of a mirror in the which he that looked did see all his past life; that
magical mirror is no fable, for in the memory of love, old things do
return and show themselves as features do in the glass, with a perfect
and most beguiling likeness.

Last night, Deacon Dole's Indian--One-eyed Tom, a surly fellow--broke
into his master's shop, where he made himself drunk with rum, and,
coming to the house, did greatly fright the womenfolk by his threatening
words and gestures. Now, the Deacon coming home late from the church-
meeting, and seeing him in this way, wherreted him smartly with his
cane, whereupon he ran off, and came up the road howling and yelling
like an evil spirit. Uncle Rawson sent his Irish man-servant to see
what caused the ado; but he straightway came running back, screaming
"Murther! murther!" at the top of his voice. So uncle himself went to
the gate, and presently called for a light, which Rebecca and I came
with, inasmuch as the Irishman and Effie dared not go out. We found Tom
sitting on the horse-block, the blood running down his face, and much
bruised and swollen. He was very fierce and angry, saying that if he
lived a month, he would make him a tobacco-pouch of the Deacon's scalp.
Rebecca ventured to chide him for his threats, but offered to bind up
his head for him, which she did with her own kerchief. Uncle Rawson
then bade him go home and get to bed, and in future let alone strong
drink, which had been the cause of his beating. This he would not do,
but went off into the woods, muttering as far as one could hear him.

This morning Deacon Dole came in, and