light breeze, stirring through a great bush of early flowering lilac near the edge of the lawn, sent out a wave of odour which tingled through his sensitive blood like wine,—­the sunlight was warm and comforting, and altogether there seemed nothing wrong with the world, particularly as the morning’s newspapers had not yet come in.  With them would probably arrive the sad savour of human mischief and muddle, but till these daily morbid records made their appearance, May-day might be accepted as God made it and gave it,—­a gift unalloyed, pure, bright and calm, with not a shadow on its lovely face of Spring.  The Stoic spirit of Epictetus himself had even seemed to join in the general delight of nature, for Walden held the book half open at a page whereon these words were written: 

“Had we understanding thereof, would any other thing better beseem us than to hymn the Divine Being and laud Him and rehearse His gracious deeds?  These things it were fitting every man should sing, and to chant the greatest and divinest hymns for this, that He has given us the power to observe and consider His works, and a Way wherein to walk.  If I were a nightingale, I would do after the manner of a nightingale; if a swan, after that of a swan.  But now I am a reasoning creature, and it behooves me to sing the praise of God; this is my task, and this I do, nor as long as it is granted me, will I ever abandon this post.  And you, too, I summon to join me in the same song.”

“A wonderfully ‘advanced’ Christian way of looking at life, for a pagan slave of the time of Nero!” thought Walden, as his eyes wandered from the thrush on the almond tree, back to the volume in his hand,—­“With all our teaching and preaching, we can hardly do better.  I wonder—–­”

Here his mind became altogether distracted from classic lore, by the appearance of a very unclassic boy, clad in a suit of brown corduroys and wearing hob-nailed boots a couple of sizes too large for him, who, coming suddenly out from a box-tree alley behind the gabled corner of the rectory, shuffled to the extreme verge of the lawn and stopped there, pulling his cap off, and treading on his own toes from left to right, and from right to left in a state of sheepish hesitancy.

“Come along,—­come along!  Don’t stand there, Bob Keeley!” And Walden rose, placing Epictetus on the seat he vacated—­“What is it?”

Bob Keeley set his hob-nailed feet on the velvety lawn with gingerly precaution, and advancing cap in hand, produced a letter, slightly grimed by his thumb and finger.

“From Sir Morton, please sir!  Hurgent, ’e sez.”

Walden took the missive, small and neatly folded, and bearing the words ‘Badsworth Hall’ stamped in gold at the back of the envelope.  Opening it, he read: 

“Sir Morton Pippitt presents his compliments to the Reverend John Walden, and having a party of distinguished guests staying with him at the Hall, will be glad to know at what day and hour this week he can make a visit of inspection to the church with his friends.”