concealed the ancient brick and wood.  A raised bank surrounded the green nest, and a gentle slope conducted to a lawn fringed with the earliest flowers of the year.  I rang the loud bell, and a neatly dressed servant-girl gave me admittance to the house.  In a room of moderate size, furnished by a hand as old at least as the grandsires of the present occupants, and well supplied with books, sat the incumbent.  He was a man of fifty years of age or more, tall and gentlemanly in demeanour.  His head was partly bald, and what remained of his hair was grey almost to whiteness.  He had a noble forehead, a marked brow, and a cold grey eye.  His mouth betrayed sorrow, or habitual deep reflection, and the expression of every other feature tended to seriousness.  The first impression was unfavourable.  A youth, who was reading with the minister when I entered the apartment, was dismissed with a simple inclination of the head, and the Rev. Walter Fairman then pointed to a seat.

“You have had a tedious journey, Mr Stukely,” began the incumbent, “and you are fatigued, no doubt.”

“What a glorious spot this is, sir!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, it is pretty,” answered Mr Fairman, very coldly as I thought.  “Are you hungry, Mr Stukely?  We dine early; but pray take refreshment if you need it.”

I declined respectfully.

“Do you bring letters from my agent?”

“I have a parcel in my trunk, sir, which will be here immediately.  What magnificent trees!” I exclaimed again, my eyes riveted upon a stately cluster, which were about a hundred yards distant.

“Have you been accustomed to tuition?” asked Mr Fairman, taking no notice of my remark.

“I have not, sir, but I am sure that I shall be delighted with the occupation.  I have always thought so.”

“We must not be too sanguine.  Nothing requires more delicate handling than the mind of youth.  In no business is experience, great discernment and tact, so much needed as in that of instruction.”

“Yes, sir, I am aware of it.”

“No doubt,” answered Mr Fairman quietly.  “How old are you?”

I told my age, and blushed.

“Well, well,” said the incumbent, “I have no doubt we shall do.  You are a Cambridge man, Mr Graham writes me?”

“I was only a year, sir, at the university.  Circumstances prevented a longer residence.  I believe I mentioned the fact to Mr Graham.”

“Oh yes, he told me so.  You shall see the boys this afternoon.  They are fine-hearted lads, and much may be done with them.  There are six.  Two of them are pretty well advanced.  They read Euripides and Horace.  Is Euripides a favourite of yours?”

“He is tender, plaintive, and passionate,” I answered; “but perhaps I may be pardoned if I venture to prefer the vigour and majesty of the sterner tragedian.”

“You mean you like AEschylus better.  Do you write poetry, Mr Stukely?  Not Latin verses, but English poetry.”