cry of his wonderful hymns.  There were harmless ghosts in its silent chambers, or walking in the pale moonlight up the stairs or about the flower garden.  No one was afraid of them; they only gave a tender and romantic character to the surroundings.  If Mrs. Hatton felt them in a room, she curtsied and softly withdrew, and John, on more than one occasion, had asked, “Why depart, dear ghosts?  There is room enough for us all in the old house.”

But for all this, and all that, it did not answer the spirit of John’s nature and daily life.  He was essentially a man of his century.  He loved large proportions and abundance of light and fresh air, and he dreamed of a home of palatial dimensions with white Ionic pillars and wide balconies and large rooms made sunny by windows tall enough for men of his stature to use as doors if they so desired.  It was to be white as snow, with the Ash plantation behind it and gardens all around and the river washing their outskirts and telling him as he sat in the evenings—­with Jane at his side—­where it had come from and what it had seen and heard during the day.

He went to sleep in this visionary house and did not awaken until the sun was high up and hurrying men and women to work.  So he rose quickly, for he counted himself among this working-class, felt his responsibilities, and began to reckon with the difficulties he had to meet and the appointments he could not decline.  He had promised to see his overseer at half-past nine, and he knew Jonathan would have a few disagreeable words ready, if he broke his promise—­words it was better to avoid than to notice or discount.

At half-past eight he was ready to ride to the mill.  His gig was waiting, but he chose his saddle horse, because the creature so lovingly neighed and neighed to the sound of his approaching footsteps, evidently rejoicing to see him, and pawing the ground with his impatience to feel him in the saddle.  John could not resist the invitation.  He sent the uncaring gig away, laid his arm across Bendigo’s neck, and his cheek against Bendigo’s cheek.  Then he whispered a few words in his ear and leaped into the saddle as only a Yorkshireman or a gypsy can leap, and Bendigo, thrilling with delight, carried his master swiftly away from the gig and its driver, neighing with triumph as he passed them.

When about halfway to the mill he met Miss Harlow returning home from her early morning walk.  She was dressed with extreme simplicity in a short frock of pink corduroy, and a sailor hat of coarse Dunstable straw, with a pink ribbon round it.  Long, soft, white leather gauntlets covered her hands, and she carried in them a little basket of straw, full of bluebells and ferns.  John saw her approaching and he noticed the lift of her head and the lift of her foot and said to himself, “Proud!  Proud!” but in his heart he thought no harm of her stately, graceful carriage.  To him she was a most beautiful girl, fresh and fair and,