Ten years, however, had now passed since John Walden had bought the living, and of these ten years three had been occupied in the restoration of the church, so that seven had elapsed since it had been consecrated.  And during those seven years not once had Bishop Brent been seen again in St. Rest.  He remained in the thoughts of the people as an indefinable association with whom they would fain have had more to do.  Sir Morton Pippitt had passed from the sixties into the seventies, very little altered;—­still upright, still inflexible and obstinate of temperament, he ruled the neighbourhood, Riversford especially, as much as was possible to him now that much of the management of St. Rest had passed under the quieter, but no less firm authority of John Walden, whose will was nearly always found in intellectually balanced opposition to his.  The two seldom met.  Sir Morton was fond of ‘county’ society; Walden loathed it.  Moreover, Miss Tabitha, wearing steadily on towards fifty, had, as the saying is, secretly ‘set her cap’ at the Reverend John; and the mere sight of the sedately-amorous spinster set his nerves on edge.  Devoting himself strictly to his duties, to the care of the church, to the interests of his parishioners, young and old, to the cultivation of his garden, and to the careful preservation of all the natural beauties of the landscape around him,—­John lived very much the life of a ‘holy man’ of mediaeval days; while Sir Horton built and ‘patronised’ a hospital at Riversford, gave several prizes for cabbages and shooting competitions, occasionally patted the heads of a few straggling school-children, fussed round among his scattered tenantry, and wrote paragraphs about his own ’fine presence and open-hearted hospitality’ for publication in the ‘Riversford Gazette’ whenever he entertained a house party at Badsworth Hall, which he very frequently did.  He kept well in touch with London folk, and to London folk he was fond of speaking of St. Rest as ‘my’ little village.  But when London folk came to enquire for themselves as to the nature of his possession, they invariably discovered that it was not Sir Morton’s little village at all but the Reverend John’s little village.  Hence arose certain discrepancies and cross-currents of feeling, leading to occasional mild friction and ‘local’ excitement.  Up to the present time, however, Walden had on the whole lived a tranquil life, such as best suited his tranquil and philosophic temperament, and his occasional ‘brushes’ with. snow-like in the rays of the sun, which flashed clear on its stray bits of gold and broken incrustation of gems, sending a straight beam through the eastern window on the one word ‘Resurget’ like a torch of hope from beyond the grave.