It was about the dullest dreariest little town to which his destiny had ever brought Gilbert Fenton, consisting of a melancholy high-street, with a blank market-place, and a town hall that looked as if it had not been opened within the memory of man; a grand old gothic church, much too large for the requirements of the place; a grim square brick box inscribed “Ebenezer;” and a few prim villas straggling off into the country.

On one side of the church there was a curious little old-fashioned court, wonderfully neat and clean, with houses the parlours whereof were sunk below the level of the pavement, after the manner of these old places.  There was a great show of geraniums in the casements, and a general aspect of brightness and order distinguished all these modest dwellings.  It was to this court that Mr. Fenton had been directed on inquiring for Thomas Stoneham, the parish-clerk, at the inn where the coach deposited him.  He was fortunate enough to find Mr. Stoneham sunning himself on the threshold of his domicile, smoking an after-dinner pipe.  A pleasant clattering of tea-things sounded from the neat little parlour within, showing that, early as it was, there were already preparations for the cup which cheers without inebriating in the Stoneham household.

Thomas Stoneham, supported by a freshly-painted door of a vivid green and an extensive brass plate engraved with his name and functions, was a personage of some dignity.  He was a middle-aged man, ponderous and slow of motion, with a latent pomposity, which he rendered as agreeable as possible by the urbanity of his manners.  He was a man of a lofty spirit, who believed in his office as something exalted above all other dignities of this earth—­less lucrative, of course, than a bishopric or the woolsack, and of a narrower range, but quite as important on a small scale.  “The world might get on pretty well without bishops,” thought Mr. Stoneham, when he pondered upon these things as he smoked his churchwarden pipe; “but what would become of a parish in which there was no clerk?”

This gentleman, seeing Gilbert Fenton approach, was quick to surmise that the stranger came in answer to the letter he had written the day before.  The advent of a stranger in Wygrove was so rare an occurrence, that it was natural enough for him to jump at this conclusion.

“I believe you are Mr. Stoneham,” said Gilbert, “and the writer of a letter in answer to an advertisement in the Times.”

“My name is Stoneham, sir; I am the clerk of this parish, and have been for twenty years and more, as I think I may have stated in the letter to which you refer.  Will you be so kind as to step inside?”

Mr. Stoneham waved his hand towards the parlour, to which apartment Gilbert descended.  Here he found Mrs. Stoneham, a meek little sandy-haired woman, who seemed to be borne down by the weight of her lord’s dignity; and Miss Stoneham, also meek and sandy, with a great many stiff little corkscrew ringlets budding out all over her head and a sharp little inquiring nose.