CHAPTER XI.

THE Squire did not of course appear at the breakfast-table; but Barbara and Betty did its honours in a most hospitable style. The elder lady scolded the Vicar a little for having given his countenance to something not unlike a debauch; but altogether much good humour prevailed. A walk in the park was proposed, and Mrs. Elizabeth soon appeared accoutred for exercise; but Barbara said she was sorry she could not be of the party, and whispered something into her aunt's ear about children and a school.

Young Chisney, having discovered that an intimate acquaintance of his was in the same neighbourhood, begged one of the Squire's horses, and set off to pay his visit; while Mr. Dalton and his son began their inspection of the grounds, under the superintendence of their worthy relation.

She took them a long walk; first through all the gardens, and then by the side of the river, and up the hill too, among fine open old groves, where herds of beautiful deer were brousing. She could not move very quickly, but she was indefatigable, and as she walked between her cousins, leaning on their arms, her conversation flowed on at once so gaily and so sensibly, that neither of them had any inclination to complain of the rate at which they were proceeding. At last she brought them to the edge of a small but deep hollow, very thickly wooded with ancient trees, and, pausing for a moment, said to the Vicar, "Do you know whither I am carrying ye now, cousin? You stly do."

m

Yes," said Mr. Dalton, "I know it well, ma'am, ywhy should you take the trouble of going down le? I can show it to Reginald another time:"

"Nay, nay," said the old lady, smiling very swee and yet rather solemnly too, "if that's all the mat you need not stop me here. There's seldom a wee.. passes but I pay my visit in this quarter; and well e'en go down together, if you please, for we three may seek all the world over, I take it, without finding another spot where we have so much in common."

So speaking, she resumed her hold of the Vicar's arm, and leaning on it with rather a stronger pressure than before, proceeded down the path, which was too narrow for three to walk a-breast on it. Reginald, following the pair, soon found himself almost in darkness, for the trees were chiefly pines, and their strong and lofty red shafts stood close together, so that there was a complete canopy, black rather than green, overhead. Neither his father nor Mrs. Dalton was saying any thing, and somehow or other he did not like to ask any questions, but there was a sort of elaborate loom in the place, so different from the aspect of any other part of the grounds he had been traversing, that he could not help divining something of what the old lady had alluded to.

Deep down in the dell there is a space left open among the trees:-smooth firm old turf, and a little rivulet flowing clear as crystal over a bed of the whitest pebbles. It was here that in ancient times rose the nunnery of St. Judith's-the same religious house to some of the possessions of which the Dalton family succeeded in the reign of Henry VIII.—a splendid and lofty structure in its day. Of all that once wide and magnificent pile, there remains nothing now but one or two prostrate columns, a fragment of the cloister, and a single very small chapel, quite open on one side to the air, and mantled all over with ivy. This was originally one of a great number of subordinate chapels, branching off from the nave of the conventual church; but the Daltons, long before thre came lords of the ground, had chosen to make it burying place; and hence probably its preservatit the midst of so much destruction or decay.

Mrs. Elizabeth opened the wicket, and without saying any thing, led the way into the enclosure. When they were all beneath the roof of the chapel, she sat down on the edge of a little altar-tomb, while the gentlemen stood uncovered by her side, their eyes wandering over the maze of old effigies and inscriptions, with which the opposite wall was laden. Reginald stirred neither foot nor hand for some minutes, lost in pensive curiosity; but at last stepped forward to spell out an_epitaph which he had not been able to understand. Even when he had come quite close to it, it was still illegible; all but the words "Reginald Baltune," and the date MBrrrUI.

66

Ay, ay," said Mrs. Elizabeth, "that Reginald, I believe, was but a very young man when he died. His father was slain at Flodden-field, and left him an orphan, and that's all we know of him. Look at the next stone cousin, and you will find a plain text, if I be not fo.etful."

It was a simple slab of marble fixed low on the wall, with the initials B. D. at the top of it, and underneath these words in gilt capitals, seemingly but recently carved there :-OUR FATHERS FIND THEIR Graves IN OUR SHORT MEMORIES, AND SADLY TELL US HOW WE SHALL BE BURIED IN OUR SURVIVORS. LET ME BE FOUND IN THE REGISTER OF God, not in the RECORD

OF MAN.

"Poor Barbara," said Mrs. Elizabeth, after our youth had read the words aloud;-" poor Barbara! this is now one of her fancies, and yet who can say much against it?"

"Barbara!" said the Vicar, "what has she done, I pray you?"

then

ther

Only put up her own monument, cousin ;" she eled," you see it there before you; but 'tis not a of yesterday, as you may observe. I believe n scription is almost as old as your Reginald." he Vicar's countenance underwent a change sudmy and melancholy, upon his hearing these words, and walked away by himself to the other extremity of

the

yo

་

the chapel. Mrs. Elizabeth followed him with a look of deep regret, and then, as if checking her thoughts, she turned to Reginald, and said to him in an energetic and lively tone, "Look round ye, young man, and tell me your mind-whether, now, would ye lie here, after having been a good and great divine, like the Dean on your left, or after having been a gallant and good soldier, like Sir Marmaduke under your foot? The one died at eighty-five, and the other at eight and twenty; but what matters that now?"

"Wherever I live," said the youth, "I hope I shall be buried here."

"Ay," said Elizabeth very quickly, and yet very seriously, "and I hope you will remember the saying of one of the wisest men that ever lived: 'Happy is he who so lives, that when he dies he makes no commotion among the dead.' Always remember that you are a Dalton, my dear boy, and remember that we shall all have our wakening together here, as well as our sleep."

The Vicar turned round hastily when he heard this, and said to his son, "Be thankful, my boy, for Mrs. Dalton's good advice, but do not persuade yourself that you are even to have a grave at Grypherwast—” He stopped suddenly when the words were out, with the air of one that has said more than he intended to say; but the old lady rose at once from her seat, and taking Reginald by the hand, said in an audible whisper, "Nay, nay, young man, they wont grudge you that but we've been long enough here for this time; don't let us forget the world while the sun is yet over our heads."

So saying, Mrs. Elizabeth led Reginald out of the chapel, and the Vicar followed them lingeringly through the wood. The path by which they quitte

e

cincts was a different one from that by whicle pli ordiapproached them; and much to Reginald's bing conthey were scarcely beyond the shadow of the ere the hamlet and the manor-house lay bright i den not two hundred yards from them in the valley

T.

he

"You see," said Mrs. Elizabeth," one's last journey here is any thing but a long one. I must step into the village, though, before I go home, for Barbara sometimes forgets the hours when she's busy with her affairs. Will you walk with me, and see her in her school-room?""

"Perhaps," said the Vicar, "we might be intruding on Miss Dalton."

"Nay, nay," said the old lady, "you need not stand upon that ceremony. Barbara will be pleased with your coming; I know she will. The school is the pride of her heart, poor thing."

very

The situation of this school was certainly a very beautiful one. The cottage itself was long and low, neatly white-washed, with creepers about the windows, a wide porch in the centre, and at either end one of those tall round chimneys which give such a picturesque effect to the hamlets of northern Lancashire, and some of the neighbouring counties. Placed within a little garden-green, and shaded from behind by a gigantic elm tree, it seemed the very picture of humble repose, and the subdued hum of young voices which reached the ear in approaching, did not disturb that impression. The Vicar paused when they had reached the door, as if to let Mrs. Elizabeth go in, and tell they were there; but she, once more nodding encouragement, lifted the latch, and they found themselves in a moment beyond the threshold.-A cheerful low-roofed room was filled with little girls; some sewing, others reading;-and Miss Dalton was sitting in the midst at work on what seemed to be a flannel petticoat, while two gentlemen, and a very young lady in a riding habit, appeared to be occupied in catechising some of the children.

Miss Dalton did not look in the least ashamed of being caught in her good works, but rose to receive them with a smile of courteous surprise. After bidding them severally welcome, she turned round, and said to the elder of the two gentlemen behind her, "Charles, my dear, what has become of your eyes? I am sure you have seen my cousin Mr. John Dalton before." VOL. I.

7