“There now!” said the landlord, giving him a poke of admiration with his pipe; “you knows all about it, as well as if I had told ’ee. And his family brought up so respectable! None of your sitting on pillions. A horse for his self, and a horse for his son, and a horse for his pretty darter. Ah, if I were a young man again--but there, she be above me altogether! Though ‘The Chequers,’ to my thinking, is more to the purpose, than a bigger inn might be, sir.” “You are right, I believe,” replied his guest. “How far may it be to Old Applewood farm?” “Well, sir, how far? Why, let me see: a matter of about five mile, perhaps. You’ve heered tell of the Garden of Eden, perhaps?” “To be sure! Don’t I read about it”--he was going to say “every Sunday,” but stopped, in time to dissemble the parson. “And the finest ten mile of turnpike in England. You turns off from it, about four mile out. And then you keeps on straight forrard.” “Thank you, my good friend. I shall ask the way to-morrow. Your excellent punch is as good as a nightcap. But I want to combine a little pleasure with business, if I can, to-morrow. I am a bit of a sportsman, in a small way. Would Mr. Lovejoy allow me to cast a fly in his water, think you?” “Ay, that he will, if you only tell him that you be staying at the ‘Chequers Inn.’” The Rector went to bed that night in a placid humour, with himself, and his landlord, and all the country. And sleeping well after change of air, a long ride, and a good supper, he awoke in the morning, as fresh as a lark, in a good state of mind for his breakfast. Old Applewood farm was just “taking it easy,” in the betwixt and between of hard work. The berry season was over now, and the hay was stacked, and the hops were dressed; John Shorne and his horses were resting freely, and gathering strength for another campaign--to cannonade London with apples and pears. All things had the smell of summer, passing rich, and the smell of autumn, without its weight leaning over the air. The nights were as warm as the days almost, yet soft with a mellow briskness; and any young man who looked out of his window said it was a shame to go to bed. Some people have called this the “saddest time of the whole sad twelvemonth;” the middle or end of July, when all things droop with heavy leafiness. But who be these to find fault with the richest and goodliest prime of nature’s strength? Peradventure the fault is in themselves. All seasons of the year are good to those who bring their seasoning.