pretty. CHAPTER I. THE REIGN OF STILLNESS. BOUT thirteen miles from Bristol there is a small village called Bishopsthorpe, and if you have ever seen it you will confess that it is extremely The houses stand in twos and threes or alone; each has a bit of garden in front, and roses, woodbine, or clematis, climbing up the walls, mingled in many instances with the swiftgrowing Virginian creeper, which makes such a glory of colour when its time comes to fade. The one long street slopes gently down, from where the grey old Church with its beautiful spire seems, to one standing at the other end of the street, to close the prospect so completely that strangers keep looking right and left for some road by which to continue their journey, until when they reach the Church, they find that B |