Chapter III.

Parson Dale and Squire Hazeldean parted company; the latter to inspect his
sheep, the former to visit some of his parishioners, including Lenny
Fairfield, whom the donkey had defrauded of his apple.

Lenny Fairfield was sure to be in the way, for his mother rented a few
acres of grass land from the Squire, and it was now hay-time. And Leonard,
commonly called Lenny, was an only son, and his mother a widow. The
cottage stood apart, and somewhat remote, in one of the many nooks of the
long green village lane. And a thoroughly English cottage it was--three
centuries old at least; with walls of rubble let into oak frames, and duly
whitewashed every summer, a thatched roof, small panes of glass, and an
old doorway raised from the ground by two steps. There was about this
little dwelling all the homely rustic elegance which peasant life admits
of: a honeysuckle was trained over the door; a few flower-pots were placed
on the window-sills; the small plot of ground in front of the house was
kept with great neatness, and even taste; some large rough stones on
either side the little path having been formed into a sort of rockwork,
with creepers that were now in flower; and the potato-ground was screened
from the eye by sweet peas and lupine. Simple elegance all this, it is
true; but how well it speaks for peasant and landlord, when you see that
the peasant is fond of his home, and has some spare time and heart to
bestow upon mere embellishment. Such a peasant is sure to be a bad
customer to the ale-house, and a safe neighbor to the Squire's preserves.
All honor and praise to him, except a small tax upon both, which is due to
the landlord!

Such sights were as pleasant to the Parson as the most beautiful
landscapes of Italy can be to the dilettante. He paused a moment at the
wicket to look around him, and distended his nostrils voluptuously to
inhale the smell of the sweet peas, mixed with that of the new-mown hay in
the fields behind, which a slight breeze bore to him. He then moved on,
carefully scraped his shoes, clean and well polished as they were--for Mr.
Dale was rather a beau in his own clerical way--on the scraper without the
door, and lifted the latch.

Your virtuoso looks with artistical delight on the figure of some nymph
painted on an Etruscan vase, engaged in pouring out the juice of the grape
from her classic urn. And the Parson felt as harmless, if not as elegant a
pleasure, in contempla