tain portions of England yet remain undiscovered by Americans and uncivilised by railways.   
Colester village above King's-meadows, in a county which need not be named, is one of these 
 
unknown spots. No doubt before long the bicycle and the motor-car will enliven its 
 
neighbourhood, but at present it is free from the summer of tourists. With 
 
this neglect the Colester folk themselves satisfied. They have no wish to come into 
 
contact with the busy world. This prejudice against intrusion dates from mediæval times, 
 
when strangers rarely came to the village with peaceful intentions. Even now a chance comer 
 
is looked upon with suspicion.
 
Mr Richard Pratt said something of this sort to the vicar during a morning , some six 
 
weeks after he had taken up his residence in The Nun's House. With the parson and the 
 
of the parish Mr Pratt agreed very well, his respectability having been for 
 
by Mrs Gabriel, the lady of the . But the villagers still held , although the 
 
newcomer did his best to overcome their churlish doubts. They did not credit his story 
 
that he had settled in Colester to pass his remaining years in peace, and even the money he 
 
so freely could not buy their . Pratt had never met with such people 
 
before. In most countries an open purse invites an open heart; but the Colester villagers 
 
were above Mammon worship. Such an experience was to Pratt, and introduced him 
 
to a new type of humanity.
 
"The first place I ever struck in which the dollar is not all-powerful," he said, with his 
 
Yankee twang and pleasant laugh.
 
"We are not educated in that respect," replied Mr Tempest in his simple way. 
 
"For my part, I am not ill pleased that my parishioners should refuse to worship the Golden 
 
."
 
"There is no calf about me, I guess," said Pratt, grimly, "and very little gold. I don't 
 
say I haven't a decent income, but as to being a millionaire—no, sir."
 
"In the kingdom of the blind the one-eyed is king, Mr Pratt. You are a millionaire in this 
 
poor place. But I fear you find it dull."
 
"Why, no, vicar. I'm glad to be out of the buzz. The world's made up of nerves and 
 
nowadays. At fifty-two years of age I can't stand the racket. This Sleepy 
 
Hollow's good enough for me to stay in until I out. Guess I'll buy an allotment in that 
 
of yours."
 
"Hollow!" said the vicar, smiling, "and our earthly dwelling-place is set upon a hill! Mr 
 
Pratt, I suspect you have Irish blood in your ."
 
Pratt laughed, and being to a large extent of humour, explained earnestly that he 
 
had used the word figuratively. "Washington Irving, Rip Van Winkle," he explained, nodding, 
 
whereat the vicar smiled again.
 
The situation of Colester was striking and strange. A green-clothed extended 
 
from the high table-land into King's-meadow. To right and left chalky cliffs of 
 
considerable height away for miles, forming a to the above and walls 
 
to the plains below. In pre-historic ages the ocean waves had beaten against these cliffs, 
 
but, gradually , had left dry the miles upon miles of fertile lands now called 
 
King's-meadows. An appanage of the Crown, they had been called so from the days of William 
 
the .
 
From where they stood, the vicar and his friend had a bird's-eye view of this desirable 
 
land, unrolled like a map under the bright June sky. League after league of corn-fields 
 
stretched away to the clear, shining line of ocean; and amidst the grain appeared 
 
red-roofed villages, of trees, the straight lines of dusty white roads and the 
 
, glittering serpent of the river. And as a background to this smiling plenty—if so 
 
Irish an expression be permitted—was the blue expanse of the Channel dotted with the white 
 
sails of merchantmen.
 
A small wood of ancient oaks shut off the purple-clad from the spur upon which 
 
Colester was built. On the of this, yet encircled by trees, stood the village church
 
—a crusading , [4] to St Gabriel the Messenger. Thence the ground fell away 
 
gradually, and spread out into a broad neck of land, down the centre of which ran a road 
 
leading from chapel to village. On either side of this, amidst oaks and elms and sycamores, 
 
were the houses of the gentry. From where they ended the promontory rose into two rounded 
 
hills, with a slight depression between. On the one to the left the village was built, its 
 
houses within a tumble-down wall, dating from the days when it was needed as a 
 
defence. The other hill was by a well-preserved castle, the keep of which with 
 
its flag could be seen above the oak woods. This was inhabited by Mrs Gabriel, the sole 
 
representative of the lords of Colester. Yet she was only the childless widow of the 
 
last , and had none of the fierce Gabriel blood in her veins. The once powerful and 
 
family was extinct.
 
From castle and village steps led down into the depression between the two hills. Down this 
 
continued the chapel road, sloping gradually with many to the plains below. The 
 
whole place had the look of some Rhenish robber-hold. And if tradition was to be trusted, 
 
the Gabriel lords had dwelt like eagles in their eyrie, down at to harry 
 
and , burn and the peaceful folk of the plains. A turbulent and aggressive race 
 
the Gabriels. It had defied king and priest, and parliament and people. Time alone had ever 
 
conquered it.
 
"A survival of the Middle Ages," said Mr Tempest, pointing out these things to his 
 
companion. "It was needful that the Gabriel should build strong defences. They 
 
were fierce and blood-thirsty, of law and order. For many centuries they were a 
 
to the inhabitants of the plains. These often complained to the king, and several 
 
times the place was , but without result. The Gabriels kept their hold of it. The 
 
only thing they ever lost was their title. A bill of attainder was passed against them in 
 
the time of the second George. After that they became less lions than foxes."
 
"Just so," said Mr Pratt. "This place couldn't do much against , I guess. And even 
 
in the bow and arrow days, a strong force coming over the moor and down the spur—"
 
"That was often tried," interrupted Tempest, quickly, "but the attempt always failed. In 
 
the days of Henry II. Aylmer Gabriel beat back an overwhelming force, and then the 
 
chapel as a thanksgiving. The Archangel Gabriel was the patron saint of the family, and the 
 
chapel is dedicated to him."
 
"He couldn't keep the family from dying out, however," said Pratt, as they moved towards 
 
the village.
 
"No. With the late John Gabriel the family became extinct. But I daresay Mrs Gabriel will 
 
arrange that her adopted son succeeds. He can take the name and the coat of arms. I should 
 
be very pleased to see that," added the vicar, half to himself. "Leo is a good fellow, and 
 
would make an excellent landlord."
 
The eyes of the American flashed when the name was mentioned, but he made only a careless 
 
comment. "Leo Haverleigh," he said, after a pause, "he's a right smart young chap, sure. 
 
Who is he?"
 
"The son of Mrs Gabriel's brother. She was a Miss Haverleigh, you know. I believe her 
 
brother was somewhat dissipated, and died abroad. The boy arrived here when he was three 
 
years of age, and Mrs Gabriel adopted him. He will be her heir."
 
"Is there anyone to object?" asked Pratt, eagerly.
 
The vicar shook his head. "The Gabriels are absolutely extinct. Failing Leo, the estates 
 
would to the Crown. In the old days they would have been seized by the king in any 
 
case, as the sovereigns were always anxious to hold this point of vantage which dominated 
 
their lands below. But we live in such law-abiding times, that Mrs Gabriel, although not of 
 
the blood of the family, can leave the estates to whomsoever she will. I understand that 
 
she has quite Leo shall inherit and take the name; also the coat of arms."
 
"She doesn't strike me as over-fond of the boy," said Pratt, as they climbed the crooked 
 
street; "rather a hard woman I should say."
 
"Mrs Gabriel has a particularly high moral standard," replied the vicar, evasively, "and 
 
she wishes all to to it. Leo—" he hesitated.
 
"He's no worse than a boy ought to be," said the American, cheerily. "Your young saint 
 
makes an old sinner. That's so, vicar!"
 
Mr Tempest laughed . "I fear there is small chance of Leo becoming a saint either 
 
young or old," he said, "though he is a good lad in many ways. Wild, I admit, but his 
 
heart is in the right place."
 
Pratt smiled to himself. He knew that Leo was in love with Sybil, the daughter of this 
 
prosy old archæologist. Simple as Mr Tempest was, he could not be blind to the possibility 
 
of his daughter making such an excellent match. "Oh, yes," laughed Pratt, knowingly, "I'm 
 
sure his heart is in the right place."
 
But by this time the vicar was on his hobby horse, and did not the significance of 
 
the speech. "Here," he said, waving his hand towards the four sides of the square in which 
 
they stood, "the Romans built a camp. It crowned this hill, and was by the tenth 
 
legion to overawe the turbulent tribes on the plains below. In fact, this town is 
 
built within the camp, as the name shows."
 
"How does it show that?" asked Pratt, more to keep the vicar talking than because he cared.
 
"The name, man, the name. It is properly Colncester, but by usage has been shortened to 
 
Colester. Coln comes from the Latin colonia, a colony, and caster, or cester, is derived 
 
from castra, a camp. Colncester therefore means the camp colony, which proves that the 
 
original builders of this town erected their within the circumvallation of the 
 
original castra of Claudian. If you will come with me, Mr Pratt, I will show you the 
 
of this great work."
 
"I have seen it several times before," replied Pratt, rather bored by this archæological 
 
disquisition. "I know every inch of this place. It doesn't take an American centuries to 
 
get round, and six weeks of walking have me up in your local geography. But 
 
there's the chapel, vicar. We might walk up there. I'd like to hear a few remarks on the 
 
subject of the chapel. Interesting. Oh, I guess so!"
 
"Certainly! certainly!" said Tempest, absently, "let us walk, walk," and he strolled away 
 
with his hands in his tail-coat pockets, looking something like an elderly jackdaw. Indeed 
 
the churchman, with his lean, oval face, his large spectacles and the fluttering black 
 
garments on his thin figure, very much resembled a bird. He was scholarly, well-bred and 
 
gentle, but wholly unworldly. Since his wife had died seven years before, Sybil had taken 
 
charge of the house. Harold Raston, the energetic curate, looked after the parish. But for 
 
these two, both clerical and domestic affairs would have been neglected, so immersed was Mr 
 
Tempest in his dry-as-dust explorations. Many people said openly that the vicar was past 
 
his work and should be pensioned off. Mrs Gabriel, a capable and managing woman, had once 
 
hinted as much to him. But the usually parson had flown into such a rage, that she 
 
had hastily herself and her suggestion. "There is nothing more terrible than the 
 
rebellion of a sheep." Mrs Gabriel recalled this remark of Balzac's when Tempest, proving 
 
himself of his name, swept her in from his study.
 
Pratt was quite another of humanity. A neat, dapper, little man, undersized 
 
yet proportioned. He had black hair, black eyes, and a clean-shaven face, which 
 
constantly wore an expression of good-humour. His dress was too neat for 
 
the country. A blue serge suit, white on brown boots, a Panama hat, gloves and—what 
 
he was never without—a smoothly-rolled umbrella. Spick-and-span, he might have stepped out 
 
of a glass case, and this was his invariable appearance. No one ever saw Pratt unshaven or 
 
untidy. He had been everywhere, had seen everything, and was a most engaging companion, 
 
never out of temper and never bored. But for all his smiling ways the villagers held aloof 
 
from him. Wishing to break down their barrier of prejudice, the sharp little American had 
 
attached himself to the vicar during the good man's usual morning walk. He thought that 
 
such a sight might dispose the villagers to relent.
 
"I shall not vary my usual walk," remarked Mr Tempest, . "We will stroll through 
 
the village, return to the chapel, and then, Mr Pratt, I hope you will lunch with me."
 
"Delighted, if it will not put Miss Sybil out."
 
"No, no. My wife is always prepared for chance visitors," answered the vicar, quite 
 
to the fact that the late Mrs Tempest was resting in the churchyard. "Ha, this is 
 
Mrs Jeal. How do you do, Mrs Jeal?"
 
Mrs Jeal was in excellent health, and said so with a curtsey. A dumpy, -faced woman was 
 
Mrs Jeal, with a pair of extremely wicked black eyes which snapped fire when she was 
 
angered. She had a temper, but rarely displayed it, for it suited her better to gain her 
 
ends by craft rather than force. Fifteen years ago she had appeared from nowhere, to 
 
settle as a midwife in Colester. Contrary to their usual fashion, the villagers had taken 
 
her to their . This was owing to the clever way Mrs Jeal had of managing them, and to 
 
her knowledge of herbs. She had cured many sick people whom the doctor had given up, and 
 
consequently was not looked upon with favour by Dr James, who had succeeded to the family 
 
practice. But even he could not be angry at rosy, laughing Mrs Jeal. "Though I don't like 
 
her," confessed Dr James; "the devil looks out of her eyes. Dangerous woman, very 
 
dangerous."
 
Pratt had no chance of proving this remark of the doctor's to be true, for Mrs Jeal never 
 
looked at him. She kept her wicked eyes on the vicar and smiled constantly, 
 
such smiles with an occasional curtsey. "Pearl is not with you?" said Mr 
 
Tempest.
 
"No, bless her poor heart!" cried Mrs Jeal, "she is up at the chapel. Her favourite place 
 
is the chapel, as your knows."
 
"She might have a worse place to haunt, Mrs Jeal. Poor soul—poor, mad, innocent child!"
 
"Do you call eighteen years of age childish, Mr Tempest?" asked the woman.
 
"No, no! I speak of her mind, her poor, weak mind. She is still a child. I beg of you to 
 
look after her, Mrs Jeal. We must make her path as pleasant as we may."
 
"Then I beg your reverence will tell that Barker to leave her alone."
 
"Barker, Barker? Ah, yes, the sexton—of course. Worthy man."
 
Mrs Jeal . "He won't let her stay in the chapel," she said.
 
"Tut! tut! This must be seen to. Poor Pearl is God's child, Mrs Jeal, so she has a right to 
 
rest in His House. Yes, yes, I'll see to it. Good-day, Mrs Jeal."
 
The woman dropped a curtsey, and for the first time shot a glance at Pratt, who was smiling 
 
. A nervous expression crossed her face as she caught his eye. The next moment she 
 
drew herself up and passed on, crossing herself. Pratt looked after her, still smiling, 
 
then hurried to rejoin the vicar, who began to explain in his usual wandering way.
 
"A good woman, Mrs Jeal, a good woman," he said. "For some years she has had charge of 
 
Pearl Darry, whom she rescued from her cruel father."
 
"Is that the insane girl?" said Pratt, idly.
 
"Do not talk of one so in that way, Mr Pratt. Pearl may not be quite right in her 
 
head, but she is enough to conduct herself properly. If the fact that she is not all 
 
herself reached Portfront"—the principal town of the county—"it is possible that the 
 
authorities might wish to shut her up, and that would be the death of Pearl. No, no!" said 
 
the good vicar, "let her have a fair share of God's beautiful earth, and live to a happy 
 
old age. In this quiet place we can afford one natural."
 
"Like the village idiot we read about in tales," said Pratt.[12]
 
"Just so, Mr Pratt. In Waverley there is such a one. Pearl Darry is quite harmless, and 
 
really has a very beautiful nature. Mrs Jeal is much to be commended for her charity."
 
"She looks a charitable woman," said the American, but whether he meant this ironically or 
 
not it is hard to say.
 
The women of Colester were mostly lace-workers, and at this fairylike craft while 
 
their husbands worked in the fields below. During three seasons the mountain men, as they 
 
might be called, ploughed the meadow-land, sowed the corn and helped to reap and harvest 
 
it. In the winter they returned to live on their and take a holiday. But the women 
 
worked all the year through, and Colester lace was famous. As the vicar and Pratt walked 
 
down the street, at the door of every house sat a woman with her pillow and pins 
 
making the filmy which was to the dress of many a London 
 
beauty. They were mostly serious-looking, and some even grim. But all had a smile for the 
 
vicar, although they pursed up their lips when they saw the good-natured face of Pratt. 
 
Most unaccountable this dislike they had for the American. He was rather annoyed by his 
 
pronounced unpopularity.
 
"I must really do something to make them like me," he said, much .
 
"Tut, tut!" replied the vicar, " will come in good time, Mr Pratt. It takes some 
 
years for them to fancy a stranger. I was an object of distrust to[13] them for quite 
 
three. Now they are to me."
 
"And have you been here long?"
 
"About forty years," said Tempest. "I have buried many and christened most. We have no 
 
Methodists in Colester, Mr Pratt. Everyone comes to church and worships according to the 
 
of the Anglican communion, as is fit and proper."
 
"I suppose you are a prosperous community on the whole?"
 
"So, so! Nothing to complain of. The lace made here by those clever fingers sells well in 
 
London and even abroad. Then the men earn a fair wage in King's-meadows. Mrs Gabriel looks 
 
after the few poor we have amongst us. On the whole, we have much to be thankful for, Mr 
 
Pratt."
 
Thus talking the good vicar led his companion round by the walls, where they 
 
could look down on to the plains. After a glance they re-entered the town and walked 
 
through the cobbled-stoned streets, between the , high-roofed houses. Everywhere the 
 
vicar was greeted and Pratt frowned upon. He was quite glad when they from the 
 
village through the old gate, and after walking along the neck, which was the fashionable 
 
part of Colester, began to climb up towards the chapel.
 
"A most spot," said Pratt, politely; "but I guess the folk don't cotton to me. I 
 
must make them freeze on somehow."