and about an eighth of a mile distant, was an imposing red brick building with wings and a pair of octagon towers.  It stood in a forest of pines and maples, and appeared to be enclosed by a high wall of masonry.  It was too pretentious for an almshouse, too elegant for a prison; it was as evidently not a school-house, and it could not be an arsenal.  Lynde puzzled over it a moment, and then returned for his saddle, which he slung across his back, holding it by a stirrup-strap brought over either shoulder.

“If Mary has got a conscience,” muttered Lynde, “it would prick her if she could see me now.  I must be an affecting spectacle.  In the village they won’t know whether I am the upper or the lower half of a centaur.  They won’t know whether to rub me down and give me a measure of oats, or to ask me in to breakfast.”

The saddle with its trappings probably weighed forty pounds, and Lynde was glad before he had accomplished a third of the way to the village to set down his burden and rest awhile.  On each side of him now were cornfields, and sloping orchards peopled with those grotesque, human-like apple-trees which seem twisted and cramped by a pain possibly caught from their own acidulous fruit.  The cultivated land terminated only where the village began.  It was not so much a village as a garden—­ a garden crowded with flowers of that bright metallic tint which distinguishes the flora of northern climes.  Through the centre of this Eden ran the wide main street, fringed with poplars and elms and chestnuts.  No polluting brewery or smoky factory, with its hideous architecture, marred the idyllic beauty of the miniature town—­for everything which is not a city is a town in New England.  The population obviously consisted of well-to-do persons, with outlying stock-farms or cranberry meadows, and funds snugly invested in ships and railroads.

In out-of-the-way places like this is preserved the greater part of what we have left of the hard shrewd sense and the simpler manner of those homespun old worthies who planted the seed of the Republic.  In our great cities we are cosmopolitans; but here we are Americans of the primitive type, or as nearly as may be.  It was unimportant settlements like the one we are describing that sent their quota of stout hearts and flintlock muskets to the trenches on Bunker Hill.  Here, too, the valorous spirit which had been slumbering on its arm for half a century started up at the first shot fired against Fort Sumter.  Over the chimney-place of more than one cottage in such secluded villages hangs an infantry or a cavalry sword in its dinted sheath, looked at to-day by wife or mother with the tenderly proud smile that has mercifully taken the place of tears.

Beyond the town, on the hillside which Edward Lynde had just got within the focus of his field-glass, was the inevitable cemetery.  On a grave here and there a tiny flag waved in the indolent June breeze.  If Lynde had been standing by the head-stones, he could have read among the inscriptions such unlocal words as Malvern Hill, Andersonville, Ball’s Bluff, and Gettysburg, and might have seen the withered Decoration Day wreaths which had been fresh the month before.