Inside the enclosure the reverend gentleman himself reclines in an arm-chair of cane-work placed under the shade of the verandah, just without the glass door or window opening from the drawing-room upon the lawn.  His head has fallen back and a little to one side, and an open book lies on his knee; his soft felt hat is bent and crumpled; he has yielded to the heat and is slumbering.  The blinds are partly down the window, but a glimpse can be obtained of a luxurious carpet, of tables in valuable woods and inlaid, of a fine piano, of china, and the thousand and one nicknacks of highly civilised life.  The reverend gentleman’s suit of black, however, is not new; it is, on the contrary, decidedly rusty, and the sole of one of his boots, which is visible, is much worn.  Over his head the roses twine round the pillars of the verandah, and there is a parterre of brilliant flowers not far from his feet.

His wife sits, a few yards distant, under a weeping ash, whose well-trained boughs make a perfect tent, and shield her from the sun.  She has a small table before her, and writing materials, and is making notes with the utmost despatch from some paper or journal.  She is no longer young, and there are marks of much care and trouble on her forehead; but she has still a pleasing expression upon her features, her hands are exquisitely white, and her figure, once really good, retains some of the outline that rendered it beautiful.  Wherever you saw her you would say, That is a lady.  But her dress, tasteful though it be, is made of the cheapest material, and looks, indeed, as if it had been carefully folded away last summer, and was now brought out to do duty a second time.

The slow rumble of waggon wheels goes down the road, close to the lawn, but concealed by the trees, against whose boughs the sheaves of the load rustle as they go past.  Wealth rolling by upon the waggon, wealth in the well-kept garden, in the smart lawn, in the roses, the bright flowers, the substantial well-furnished house, the luxurious carpet, and the china; wealth, too, all around in the vast expanse of ripening wheat.  He has nothing to do but to slumber in the cane chair and receive his tithe of the harvest.  She has nothing to do but to sit under the shadow of the weeping ash and dream dreams, or write verses.  Such, at least, might be the first impression.

The publication from which she is so earnestly making notes is occupied with the management of bees, and she is so busy because the paper is only borrowed, and has to be returned.  Most of the papers and books that come to the vicarage have to be hastily read for the same reason.  Mrs. F——­ is doing her very best and hardest to increase the Rev. F——­’s income—­she has tried to do so for some years, and despite repeated failures is bravely, perhaps a little wearily, still trying.  There is not much left for her to experiment with.  The goat surreptitiously nibbling the valuable shrubs outside the palings is a member of a flock that once seemed to promise fair.  Goats at one time (she was persuaded) were the means of ready wealth—­they could live anywhere, on anything (the shrubs to wit), and yielded such rich milk; it far surpassed that of the shorthorn; there was the analysis to prove it!  Such milk must of course be worth money, beside which there were the kids, and the cheese and butter.