John and Elly had come together by one impulse to remove their books. The room in which they had worked was Mr. Cattley’s study, the front parlour of the house in which he lodged; for the curate being only, as it were, in the position of a temporary inhabitant (notwithstanding that no known inducement would have been enough to carry him away from Edgeley) had no house of his own, but lodged where all the curates had lodged within the memory of man, in Mrs. Sibley’s, whose house stood obliquely at the end of the village street, commanding a beautiful view of the street itself, and everything that went on there. The street was broad, and almost all the houses had little gardens, which made it a very pretty view in summer. Within a stone’s throw, at the right hand, was the ‘Green Man,’ which was a drawback, especially on Saturday nights, when the guests were a little noisy, and when Mr. Cattley was busy with his sermon. But it had this advantage, that the curate secured from his window a great deal of information as to the habits of the more careless portion of his parishioners, and now and then was able to come down upon them accordingly, with very crushing effect. Beyond the ‘Green Man,’ at a little distance, was the shop, and then the row of houses ran on, sloping a little to the right hand, so that the gable of Mr. Sandford’s house in the distance, which was old, and of a fine, mellow, red brick, closed up the view. The church and rectory were withdrawn among trees to the left hand, behind the line of the village street, which had nothing at all remarkable about it, but was homely, and pleasant to the eyes which had known it all their lives and knew everybody in it. To be sure, John Sandford was seven when he came to Edgeley--but that at seventeen does not tell for much. Feather Lane, the low part of Edgeley, was quite unseen from Mr. Cattley’s, being a narrow street which sloped down to the river, well hidden by intervening houses. Mrs. Sibley’s was rather a modern house--at least, it had additions which were of very recent date. The window was a wide, bow-window, roomy enough to hold the curate’s writing-table, and seat his two pupils, one at each side. The other part of the room was quite square, and not very lovely. It had a table in the centre--a black horse-hair sofa and chairs, and a red and green carpet with a very bold pattern. The want of beauty in these articles, however, had not struck anyone. The furniture was all so familiar, associated with so many tranquil, pleasant days, so many little jokes and youthful laughter. It was ‘a dear old room,’ Elly said. She looked round, as she gathered up her books, with affectionate regard. ‘Dear old place! To think one will never come here again, except to ask for Mr. Cattley, or bring him a message from Aunt Mary!’ The regret was quite genuine, but there was a little laugh in it too. ‘I sha’n’t be able even to do that,’ said John. ‘I shall be away.’