Although not always the case, still very generally, the face is the index to the mind; and when I first saw that man, I felt prejudiced against him. He came forward with a slovenly gait, and downcast looks, and to our inquiries for the keys of the church, he returned for answer, “Yes, but I can’t let you in.” On asking the reason, the rejoinder was, “Because the parson told me not to let any one go into the church.” This was by no means cheering news for us; it was far from satisfactory after riding fifteen miles, to be turned away without seeing the very object we came to look at. Every kind of persuasion was used to induce him to comply. I joined in urging him to “ope’ the door, and bid us enter,” but alas! I found him as insensible to the voice of woman, as to everything else. “Can we go into the churchyard?” was then inquired. “Yes,” was the surly answer; and following his steps, we soon reached that quiet spot. Even here he apparently viewed us with suspicion, thinking, perhaps, we not only looked capable of _sacrilege_, but of carrying away the church also; for although he still had the keys in his hand, and the rain began to fall, he not only remained inexorable, but looked as if he should be quite as well pleased if we quitted the place altogether. “The rain was falling fast,” and obliged us to retire to the shelter of a large white-wood tree, which no doubt was coeval with the first settlers, and beneath its spreading branches we remained for some time, until one of our party determined to try some other expedient, to gain the wished-for admittance, and for that purpose left myself and attendant in our shady retreat.