The
rustic church stood in the middle of a hill nearly half a mile from the
village. They strolled up to it. It had a tower built of flint, and clad
on two sides with ivy three feet deep, and the body of the church was as
snowy as the cottages, and on the south side a dozen swallows and martins
had lodged their mortar nests under the eaves; they looked, against the
white, like rugged gray stone bosses. Swallows and martins innumerable
wheeled, swift as arrows, round the tower, chirping, and in and out of
the church through an open window, and added their music and their motion
to the beauty of the place.
Returning from the church to the village, Miss Dover lagged behind, and
then Severne infused into his voice those tender tones, which give
amorous significance to the poorest prose.
"What an Arcadia!" said he.
"You would not like to be banished to it," said Zoe, demurely.
"That depends," said he, significantly. Instead of meeting him half way
and demanding an explanation, Zoe turned coy and fell to wondering what
Fanny was about.
"Oh, don't compel her to join us," said Severne. "She is meditating."
"On what? She is not much given that way.
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