Beneath two tall elms, whose boughs completely overshadowed the roof, stood Mr. Wood’s dwelling,—­a plain, substantial, commodious farm-house.  On a bench at the foot of the trees, with a pipe in his mouth, and a tankard by his side, sat the worthy carpenter, looking the picture of good-heartedness and benevolence.  The progress of time was marked in Mr. Wood by increased corpulence and decreased powers of vision,—­by deeper wrinkles and higher shoulders, by scantier breath and a fuller habit.  Still he looked hale and hearty, and the country life he led had imparted a ruddier glow to his cheek.  Around him were all the evidences of plenty.  A world of haystacks, bean-stacks, and straw-ricks flanked the granges adjoining his habitation; the yard was crowded with poultry, pigeons were feeding at his feet, cattle were being driven towards the stall, horses led to the stable, a large mastiff was rattling his chain, and stalking majestically in front of his kennel, while a number of farming-men were passing and repassing about their various occupations.  At the back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned terrace-garden, full of apple-trees and other fruit-trees in blossom, and lively with the delicious verdure of early spring.

Hearing the approach of the rider, Mr. Wood turned to look at him.  It was now getting dusk, and he could only imperfectly distinguish the features and figure of the stranger.

“I need not ask whether this is Mr. Wood’s,” said the latter, “since I find him at his own gate.”

“You are right, Sir,” said the worthy carpenter, rising.  “I am Owen Wood, at your service.”

“You do not remember me, I dare say,” observed the stranger.

“I can’t say I do,” replied Wood.  “Your voice seems familiar to me—­and—­but I’m getting a little deaf—­and my eyes don’t serve me quite so well as they used to do, especially by this light.”

“Never mind,” returned the stranger, dismounting; “you’ll recollect me by and by, I’ve no doubt.  I bring you tidings of an old friend.”

“Then you’re heartily welcome, Sir, whoever you are.  Pray, walk in.  Here, Jem, take the gentleman’s horse to the stable—­see him dressed and fed directly.  Now, Sir, will you please to follow me?”

Mr. Wood then led the way up a rather high and, according to modern notions, incommodious flight of steps, and introduced his guest to a neat parlour, the windows of which were darkened by pots of flowers and creepers.  There was no light in the room; but, notwithstanding this, the young man did not fail to detect the buxom figure of Mrs. Wood, now more buxom and more gorgeously arrayed than ever,—­as well as a young and beautiful female, in whom he was at no loss to recognise the carpenter’s daughter.

Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year.  Her features were still slightly marked by the disorder alluded to in the description of her as a child,—­but that was the only drawback to her beauty.  Their expression was so amiable, that it would have redeemed a countenance a thousand times plainer than hers.  Her figure was perfect,—­tall, graceful, rounded,—­and, then, she had deep liquid blue eyes, that rivalled the stars in lustre.  On the stranger’s appearance, she was seated near the window busily occupied with her needle.