“She must be a changeling,” he would say, as he left the lowly roof. “She is as perfect a gentlewoman as was ever born in ducal mansion, and as handsome a woman as ever wore a coronet of pearls.” Nor was this by any means the only place in which that excellent physician met the object of his admiration. There was not a home in the village, into which unwelcome sickness came, but Lucy’s welcome and willing visits brought help and sympathy, balm and comfort of the rarest and most useful kind. Now, it so happened, that just at this time, Squire Fuller was suffering severely from an attack of gout, and the patrician invalid was daily visited professionally by Doctor Jephson. Being one of the very few visitors to Waverdale Hall, whose breadth of intellect and high attainments made his conversation interesting to the imprisoned squire, the doctor spent as much time with him as his engagements would permit, and many and hot were the discussions between the two, as they sat in the cosy library. The doctor was an intelligent believer in revelation, a Christian in faith and character, and so it was never long before he came athwart the half-scoffing scepticism of his patient. He fully knew the value of the patronage he received from the Hall, but his manly independence of opinion was in no wise restrained or compromised by selfish considerations--a feature in his character for which in his heart the stately squire held him, despite his seeming anger, in high and genuine esteem. Latterly, the exploits of the poaching fraternity, and certain glaring cases of immorality and rural crime had come before him, as a county magistrate. Referring to these, in the course of a hot argument, the squire expressed a doubt as to whether virtue, honour, and uprightness were to be found amongst the poorer classes in rural districts. “Aye, as often as they are to be found in the higher walks of life,” said Dr. Jephson. “There are people in your own village, both men and women, whose lives are as noble and whose characters are as pure and excellent as any that you can find amid the homes of rank and wealth.” “You can’t name them,” said Squire Fuller, with a sneer. “It’s merely a sentimental notion of Arcadian innocence, the dream of an optimist, the delusion of a poet, which vanish like mist when you come into actual contact with them. You can’t produce a specimen of the peasant class who is superior to the charms of skittles and beer.” “Yes, I can,” said the doctor, emphatically. “A finer or more manly character than Old Adam Olliver cannot be found. If you can picture to yourself a Sir Philip Sydney in corduroy, or a Bayard on a donkey, you can sketch Adam Olliver for yourself.”