Passing the old rectory, and still older church, with its reverend screen of trees, and slowly ascending a hill side, from whence he obtained enchanting peeps of the spire and college of Harrow, he reached the cluster of well-built houses which constitute the village of Neasdon. "That was the lad's name," returned the stranger. “Forgive me,” he said. A post-chaise seen in the road first alarmed us. "Do you want it back under the pillow?" "Hang it over a chair. And me, I wish to know why you have seen him. And when there is no longer any need to use it, why then, enough you say—and throw it away. Unless he deserts the girl, he won't be so hard to find as formerly.
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