And now, when field, and wood, and hedge stand up in flush of summering, and every bird, and bat, and insect of our British island is as active as he ought to be (and sometimes much too much so); also, when good people look at one another in hot weather, and feel that they may have worked too hard, or been too snappish when the frosts were on (which they always are, except in July), and then begin to wonder whether their children would like to play with the children of one another, because they cannot catch cold in such weather; and after that, begin to speak of a rubber in the bower, and a great spread of delightfulness,--when all this comes to pass, what right have we to make the worst of it? That is neither here nor there. Only one thing is certain, that our good parson, looking as unlike a parson as he could--and he had a good deal of capacity in that way--steered his pony Maggie round the corner into the Grower’s yard, and looked about to see how the land lay. The appearance of everything pleased him well; for comfort, simplicity, and hospitality shared the good quarters between them. Even a captious man could hardly, if he understood the matter, find much fault with anything. The parson was not a captious man, and he knew what a good farm-yard should be, and so he said “Capital, capital!” twice, before he handed Maggie’s bridle to Paddy from Cork, who of course had run out with a sanguine sense of a shilling arrived. “Is Squire Lovejoy at home?” asked the visitor, being determined to “spake the biggest,” as Paddy described it afterwards. For the moment, however, he only stared, while the parson repeated the question. “Is it the maisther ye mane?” said Paddy; “faix then, I’ll go, and ax the missus.” But before there was time to do this, the Grower appeared with a spud on his shoulder. He had been in the hop-ground; and hearing a horse, came up to know what was toward. The two men looked at one another, with mutual approval. The parson tall, and strong, and lusty, and with that straightforward aspect which is conferred, or at least confirmed, by life in the open air, field sports, good living, and social gatherings. His features, too, were clear and bold, and his jaws just obstinate enough to manage a parish; without that heavy squareness which sets church and parish by the ears. The Grower was of moderate height, and sturdy, and thoroughly useful; his face told of many dealings with the world; but his eyes were frank, and his mouth was pleasant. His custom was to let other people have their say before he spoke; and now he saluted Mr. Hales in silence, and waited for him to begin. “I hope,” said his visitor, “you will excuse my freedom in coming to see you thus. I am trying this part of the country, for the first time, for a holiday. And the landlord of the ‘Chequers Inn’ at Tonbridge, where I am staying for a day or two, told me that you perhaps would allow me to try for a fish in your river, sir.”