d the stream and crossed the valley road and the railway,
passed up by these entrenchments. The road to London lay half a mile to
the right of them.

To complete this survey one must mention the church and the farm, both
of which lay over the stream in Cadford. Between them they ruled the
village, one claiming the souls of the labourers, the other their
bodies. If a man desired other religion or other employment he must
leave. The church lay up by the railway, the farm was down by the water
meadows. The vicar, a gentle charitable man scarcely realized his power,
and never tried to abuse it. Mr. Wilbraham, the agent, was of another
mould. He knew his place, and kept others to theirs: all society seemed
spread before him like a map. The line between the county and the local,
the line between the labourer and the artisan--he knew them all, and
strengthened them with no uncertain touch. Everything with him was
graduated--carefully graduated civility towards his superior, towards
his inferiors carefully graduated incivility. So--for he was a
thoughtful person--so alone, declared he, could things be kept together.

Perhaps the Comic Muse, to whom so much is now attributed, had caused
his estate to be left to Mr. Failing. Mr. Failing was the author of some
brilliant books on socialism,--that was why his wife married him--and
for twenty-five years he reigned up at Cadover and tried to put his
theories into practice. He believed that things could be kept together
by accenting the similarities, not the differences of men. "We are all
much more alike than we confess," was one of his favourite speeches. As
a speech it sounded very well, and his wife had applauded; but when it
resulted in hard work, evenings in the reading-rooms, mixed-parties, and
long unobtrusive talks with dull people, she got bored. In her piquant
way she declared that she was not going to love her husband, and
succeeded. He took it quietly, but his brilliancy decreased. His health
grew worse, and he knew that when he died there was no one to carry on
his work. He felt, besides, that he had done very little. Toil as he
would, he had not a practical mind, and could never dispense with Mr.
Wilbraham. For all his tact, he would often stretch out the hand of
brotherhood too soon, or withhold it when it would have been accepted.
Most people misunderstood him, or only understood him when he was dead.
In after years his reign became a golden age; but he counted a few