"You really must stop, Spruce! You are the dearest old gabbler possible--but you must stop! You'll have no breath left--and I shall have no patience! I've heard quite enough. I met Mr. Walden this morning, and I'm sure he isn't a saint at all! He's a very ordinary person indeed,--most ordinary--not in the very least remarkable. I'm. glad he's good to the people, and that they like him--that's really all that's necessary, and it's all I want to know. Go along, Spruce!--don't talk to me any more about saints in the Sarky or out of the Sarky! There never was a real saint in the world--never!--not in the shape of a man!" With laughter still dancing in her eyes, she turned away, and Mrs. Spruce, in full possession of restored nerve and vivacity, bustled off on her round of household duty, the temporary awe she had felt concerning the new written code of domestic 'Rules and Regulations' having somewhat subsided under the influence of her mistress's gay good-humour. And Maryllia herself, putting on her hat, called Plato to her side, and started off for the village, resolved to make the church her first object of interest, in order to see the wondrous 'Sarky.' "I never was so much entertained in my life!" she declared to herself, as she walked lightly along,--her huge dog bounding in front of her and anon returning to kiss her hand and announce by deep joyous barks his delight at finding himself at liberty in the open country--"Spruce is a perfect comedy in herself,--ever so much better than a stage play! And then the quaint funny men who came to see me last night,--and those village boys this morning! And the 'saintly' parson! I'm sure he'll turn out to be comic too,--in a way--he'll be the 'heavy father' of the piece! Really I never imagined I should have so much fun!" Here, spying a delicate pinnacle gleaming through the trees, she rightly concluded that it belonged to the church she intended to visit, and finding a footpath leading across the fields, she followed it. It was the same path which Walden had for so many years been accustomed to take in his constant walks to and from the Manor. It soon brought her to the highroad which ran through the village, and across this it was but a few steps to the gate of the churchyard. Laying one hand on her dog's neck, she checked the great creature's gambols and compelled him to walk sedately by her side, as with hushed footsteps she entered the 'Sleepy Hollow' of death's long repose, and went straight up to the church door which, as usual, stood open. "Stay here, Plato!" she whispered to her four-footed comrade, who, understanding the mandate, lay down at once submissively in the porch to wait her pleasure.