“Still you have not given us your decision,” said the Parson, after a pause. The doctor withdrew the pipe. “_Cospetto!_” said he. “He who scrubs the head of an ass wastes his soap.” “If you scrubbed mine fifty times over with those enigmatical proverbs of yours,” said the Parson, testily, “you would not make it any the wiser.” “My good sir,” said the Doctor, bowing low from his perch on the stile, “I never presumed to say that there were more asses than one in the story; but I thought that I could not better explain my meaning, which is simply this—you scrubbed the ass’s head, and therefore you must lose the soap. Let the _fanciullo_ have the sixpence; and a great sum it is, too, for a little boy, who may spend it all upon pocket-money!” “There, Lenny—you hear?” said the Parson, stretching out the sixpence. But Lenny retreated, and cast on the umpire a look of great aversion and disgust. “Please, Master Dale,” said he, obstinately, “I’d rather not.” “It is a matter of feeling, you see,” said the Parson, turning to the umpire; “and I believe the boy is right.” “If it is a matter of feeling,” replied Dr. Riccabocca, “there is no more to be said on it. When Feeling comes in at the door, Reason has nothing to do but to jump out of the window.” “Go, my good boy,” said the Parson, pocketing the coin; “but stop! give me your hand first. _There_—I understand you—good-by!” Lenny’s eyes glistened as the Parson shook him by the hand, and, not trusting himself to speak, he walked off sturdily. The Parson wiped his forehead, and sat himself down on the stile beside the Italian. The view before them was lovely, and both enjoyed it (though not equally) enough to be silent for some moments. On the other side the lane, seen between gaps in the old oaks and chestnuts that hung over the moss-grown pales of Hazeldean Park, rose gentle verdant slopes, dotted with sheep and herds of deer; a stately avenue stretched far away to the left, and ended at the right hand, within a few yards of a ha-ha that divided the park from a level sward of table-land gay with shrubs and flower-plots, relieved by the shade of two mighty cedars. And on this platform, only seen in part, stood the squire’s old-fashioned house, red brick, with stone mullions, gable-ends, and quaint chimney-pots. On this side the road, immediately facing the two gentlemen, cottage after cottage whitely emerged from the curves in the lane, while, beyond, the ground declining gave an extensive prospect of woods and cornfields, spires and farms. Behind, from a belt of lilacs and evergreens, you caught a peep of the parsonage-house, backed by woodlands, and a little noisy rill running in front. The birds were still in the hedgerows, only as if from the very heart of the most distant woods, there came now and then the mellow note of the cuckoo. “Verily,” said Mr. Dale softly, “my lot has fallen on a goodly heritage.”