A tall young man, his features seemed thin and almost haggard; out of correspondence with a large frame, they looked as if asceticism had drawn and sharpened them.  There was earnestness and eagerness—­almost feverish eagerness—­in the expression of his face.  He passed the meadows, the stubble fields, the green root crops, the men at plough, who noticed his swift walk, contrasting with their own slow motion; and as he went his way now and then consulted a little slip of paper, upon which he had jotted memoranda of his engagements.  Work, work, work—­ceaseless work.  How came this?  What could there be to do in a sparely-populated agricultural district with, to appearance, hardly a cottage to a mile?

After nearly an hour’s walking he entered the outskirts of a little country town, slumbering outside the railway system, and, turning aside from the street, stopped at the door of the ancient vicarage.  The resident within is the ecclesiastical head of two separate hamlets lying at some miles’ distance from his own parish.  Each of these hamlets possesses a church, though the population is of the very sparsest, and in each he maintains a resident curate.  A third curate assists him in the duties of the home parish, which is a large one, that is, in extent.  From one of these distant hamlets the curate, who struggled so bravely through the mire, has walked in to consult with his superior.  He is shown into the library, and sinks not unwillingly into a chair to wait for the vicar, who is engaged with a district visitor, or lay sister.

This part of the house is ancient, and dates from medieval times.  Some have conjectured that the present library and the adjoining rooms (the partitions being modern) originally formed the refectory of a monastic establishment.  Others assign it to another use; but all agree that it is monastic and antique.  The black oak rafters of the roof, polished as it were by age, meet overhead unconcealed by ceiling.  Upon the wall in one place a figure seems at the first glance to be in the act to glide forth like a spectre from the solid stone.  The effect is caused by the subdued colouring, which is shadowy and indistinct.  It was perhaps gaudy when first painted; but when a painting has been hidden by a coat or two of plaster, afterwards as carefully removed as it was carelessly laid on, the tints lose their brilliancy.  Some sainted woman in a flowing robe, with upraised arm, stands ever in the act to bless.  Only half one of the windows of the original hall is in this apartment—­the partition wall divides it.  There yet remain a few stained panes in the upper part; few as they are and small, yet the coloured light that enters through them seems to tone the room.