draperied with white foam; two swans disporting on the water (I would not declare they were not geese), a few cottony flakes of mist hanging over damp corners, the hill rising green, with the bright whitewashed cottages of this district, on the side a rich, red, sandstone-coloured church, late architecture, tower rather mouldering—­all the more picturesque; churchyard, all white headstones and ochreous sheep, surmounted by a mushroom-shaped dark yew tree, railed in with intensely white rails, the whole glowing in the parting coup-de-soleil of a wet day, every tear of every leaf glistening, and everything indescribably lustrous.  It is a picture that one’s mental photograph ought to stamp for life, and the cheering and interest it gave, no one but you can understand.  I wished for you, I know.  It looks so poor in words.

’After the service, I laid hold of the urchin whose hearty stare had most reminded me of Tom Madison, and gave him a shilling to guide me back to Oakstead, a wise measure, for down came the cloud, blotting all out like the Castle of St. John, and by the time I came home, it was pitch dark and raining hard, and my poor father was imagining me at the foot of another precipice.  I was hoping to creep up in secret, but they all came out, fell upon me, Lady Oakstead sent me tea, and ordered me to rest; and so handsomely did I obey, that when next I opened my eyes, and saw my father waiting, as I thought, for me to go down to dinner with him, I found he had just come up after the ladies had quitted the dining-room.  So kind and so little annoyed did he seem, that I shook myself, to be certified that I had broken no more bones, but it was all sheer forbearance and consideration—­enough to go to one’s heart—­when it was the very thing to vex him most.  With great penitence, I went down, and the first person I encountered was the very curate I had seen in my misterious village, much as if he had walked out of a story book.  On fraternizing, I found him to be a friend of Holdsworth.  Lady Oakstead is going to take me, this afternoon, to see his church, &c., thoroughly; and behold, I learn from him that she is a notable woman for doing good in her parish, never so happy as in trotting to cottages, though her good deeds are always in the background.  Thereupon, I ventured to attack her this morning on cottage garniture, and obtained the very counsel I wanted about ovens and piggeries, we began to get on together, and she is to put me up to all manner of information that I want particularly.  I must go now, not to keep her waiting, never mind the first half of my letter—­I have no time to cancel it now.  I find my father wants to put in a note:  don’t believe a word that he says, for I am much better to-day, body and mind.

Goosey, goosey gander,
Where shall we wander,

Anywhere, everywhere, to remain still
                     ’Your most affectionate,
                                    ‘FITS GOSLING.’