Passing the old rectory, and still older church, with its reverend screen of trees, and slowly ascending a hill side, from whence he obtained enchanting peeps of the spire and college of Harrow, he reached the cluster of well-built houses which constitute the village of Neasdon. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. “David,” she said, “you are not a coward, are you?” “I do not know,” he muttered. "The gentleman is a stranger to me, Poll," replied the woollen-draper, with increased embarrassment.
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