At every interval of ten years, when the census is taken, the population of Dillsborough is always found to have fallen off in some slight degree.  For a few months after the publication of the figures a slight tinge of melancholy comes upon the town.  The landlord of the Bush Inn, who is really an enterprising man in his way and who has looked about in every direction for new sources of business, becomes taciturn for a while and forgets to smile upon comers; Mr. Ribbs, the butcher, tells his wife that it is out of the question that she and the children should take that long-talked-of journey to the sea-coast; and Mr. Gregory Masters, the well-known old-established attorney of Dillsborough, whispers to some confidential friend that he might as well take down his plate and shut up his house.  But in a month or two all that is forgotten, and new hopes spring up even in Dillsborough; Mr. Runciman at the Bush is putting up new stables for hunting-horses, that being the special trade for which he now finds that there is an opening; Mrs. Ribbs is again allowed to suggest Mare-Slocumb; and Mr. Masters goes on as he has done for the last forty years, making the best he can of a decreasing business.

Dillsborough is built chiefly of brick, and is, in its own way, solid enough.  The Bush, which in the time of the present landlord’s father was one of the best posting inns on the road, is not only substantial, but almost handsome.  A broad coach way, cut through the middle of the house, leads into a spacious, well-kept, clean yard, and on each side of the coach way there are bay windows looking into the street,—­the one belonging to the commercial parlour, and the other to the so-called coffee-room.  But the coffee-room has in truth fallen away from its former purposes, and is now used for a farmer’s ordinary on market days, and other similar purposes.  Travellers who require the use of a public sitting-room must all congregate in the commercial parlour at the Bush.  So far the interior of the house has fallen from its past greatness.  But the exterior is maintained with much care.  The brickwork up to the eaves is well pointed, fresh, and comfortable to look at.  In front of the carriage-way swings on two massive supports the old sign of the Bush, as to which it may be doubted whether even Mr. Runciman himself knows that it has swung there, or been displayed in some fashion, since it was the custom for the landlord to beat up wine to freshen it before it was given to the customers to drink.  The church, too, is of brick—­though the tower and chancel are of stone.  The attorney’s house is of brick, which shall not be more particularly described now as many of the scenes which these pages will have to describe were acted there; and almost the entire High Street in the centre of the town was brick also.