It was one of those days in autumn when the dews linger in the shade
till noon and the blackberry grows too watery for the _connoisseur_.
On the ridge where we loafed, the short turf was dry enough, and the
sun strong between the sparse saplings; but the paths that zigzagged
down the thick coppice to right and left were soft to the foot, and
streaked with the slimy tracks of snails. A fine blue mist filled
the gulf on either hand, and beneath it mingled the voices of streams
and of birds busy beside them. At the mouth of each valley a thicker
column of blue smoke curled up like a feather--that to the left
rising from the kitchen chimney of my father's cottage, that to the
right from the encampment where Dick's _bouillon_ was simmering above
a wood fire.
Looking over Dick's shoulder along the ridge I could see, at a point
where the two valleys climbed to the upland, a white-washed building,
set alone, and backed by an undulating moorland dotted with
clay-works. This was Ebenezer Chapel; and my father was its deacon.
Its one bell had sounded down the ridge and tinkled in my ear from
half-past ten to eleven that morning. Its pastor would walk back and
eat roast duck and drink three-star brandy under my father's roof
after service. Bell and pastor had spoken in vain, as far as I was
concerned; but I knew that all they had to say would be rubbed in
with my father's stirrup-leather before nightfall.
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