When, having followed the road, I stood at last on the bridge, and, looking up and down the river through the misty air, saw two long rows of these pollards diminishing till they vanished in both directions, the sight of them took from me all power of enjoying the water beneath me, the green fields around me, or even the old-world beauty of the little bridge upon which I stood, although all sorts of bridges have been from very infancy a delight to me.  For I am one of those who never get rid of their infantile predilections, and to have once enjoyed making a mud bridge, was to enjoy all bridges for ever.

I saw a man in a white smock-frock coming along the road beyond, but I turned my back to the road, leaned my arms on the parapet of the bridge, and stood gazing where I saw no visions, namely, at those very poplars.  I heard the man’s footsteps coming up the crown of the arch, but I would not turn to greet him.  I was in a selfish humour if ever I was; for surely if ever one man ought to greet another, it was upon such a comfortless afternoon.  The footsteps stopped behind me, and I heard a voice:—­

“I beg yer pardon, sir; but be you the new vicar?”

I turned instantly and answered, “I am.  Do you want me?”

“I wanted to see yer face, sir, that was all, if ye’ll not take it amiss.”

Before me stood a tall old man with his hat in his hand, clothed as I have said, in a white smock-frock.  He smoothed his short gray hair with his curved palm down over his forehead as he stood.  His face was of a red brown, from much exposure to the weather.  There was a certain look of roughness, without hardness, in it, which spoke of endurance rather than resistance, although he could evidently set his face as a flint.  His features were large and a little coarse, but the smile that parted his lips when he spoke, shone in his gray eyes as well, and lighted up a countenance in which a man might trust.

“I wanted to see yer face, sir, if you’ll not take it amiss.”

“Certainly not,” I answered, pleased with the man’s address, as he stood square before me, looking as modest as fearless.  “The sight of a man’s face is what everybody has a right to; but, for all that, I should like to know why you want to see my face.”

“Why, sir, you be the new vicar.  You kindly told me so when I axed you.”

“Well, then, you’ll see my face on Sunday in church—­that is, if you happen to be there.”

For, although some might think it the more dignified way, I could not take it as a matter of course that he would be at church.  A man might have better reasons for staying away from church than I had for going, even though I was the parson, and it was my business.  Some clergymen separate between themselves and their office to a degree which I cannot understand.  To assert the dignities of my office seems to me very like exalting myself; and when I have had a twinge of conscience about it, as has happened more than once,