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headeddownforfiftyyears,andgrownfromshrubs
intostraggling,melancholytrees.Itsbroadwallsare
nowovergrownwithgrass,andithastheairand
solitudeofaruin.
Inthisconventualseclusion,seatedundertheshade
ofagreatoldtree,hesawher.Theold-fashionedrustic
seatonwhichshesatisconfrontedbyanother,with
whatwasonceagravelwalkbetween.
Moreerect,shakinghimselfupasitwere,hestrode
slowlytowardher.Herheadwassupportedbyher
hand–herbookonherlap–sheseemedlostinareverie,
asheapproachedunawaresoverthethickcarpet
ofgrassandweeds.
“Well,lass,whatbringsyouhere?You’llbesneezing
andcoughingforthis;won’tyou–sneezingand
coughing–amoist,darknookye’vechosen,”saidSquire
Harry,placinghimself,nevertheless,ontheseat
opposite.
Shestartedatthesoundofhisvoice,andasshe
lookedupinhisface,hesawthatshehadbeencrying.
TheSquiresaidnothing,butstifflyscuffledand
pokedtheweedsandgrassathisfeet,forawhile,with
theendofhisstick,andwhistledlow,somedrearyold
barstohimself.
Atlengthhesaidabruptly,butinakindtone–
“You’renochild,now;you’vegrownup;you’re
awell-thriven,handsomeyoungwoman,littleAlice.
There’snotonetocomparewi’ye;ofallthelassesthat
comestoWyvernChurchyebearthebell,yedo,
yebearthebell;yeknowit.Don’tye?Come,saylass;
don’tyeknowthere’snonetocomparewi’ye?”
“Thankyou,sir.It’sverygoodofyoutothinkso–
you’realwayssokind,”saidprettyAlice,lookingvery
earnestlyupinhisface,herlargetearfuleyeswider
thanusual,andwondering,and,perhaps,hopingfor
whatmightcomenext.
“I’llbekinder,maybe;neveryemind;yelike
Wyvern,lass–theoldhouse;well,it’ssnug,itis.It’s
agoodoldEnglishhouse;noneo’yourthinbrickwalls
