The white Lady from the Grange, as some of the children called her, had just passed into the porch, after stopping to reprove some noisy urchins eating small sour apples on the tombstones; and old Granny Richardson had just hobbled in after her in her red cloak and neat black bonnet, and her prayer-book folded in a blue and white checked handkerchief with a little bunch of sweet-william and southern-wood--old man they called it in those parts--to keep it company. After granny came old Samuel Tibbs, the patriarch of the village, in his clean smock and scarlet handkerchief, followed by his youngest grandson in all the glories of corduroys and hob-nailed boots. Young Sam, as they called him, was the youngest of fifteen, who had all grown up strong and healthy under the thatched eaves of the low, whitewashed cottage down by the pond. There the fifteen young Tibbses had elbowed, and jostled, and kicked, and metaphorically pecked at each other like young rooks in a nest, and had grown up strong and hearty on a diet of bread and treacle alternating with slices of bread and dripping, running barefoot over the grass and splashing like young ducks in the pond, until promoted to hob-nailed boots and bird-scaring, with a promise of riding the plow-horses to water, and an occasional bird-nesting expedition on their own account. The bell had stopped, and the last loiterer had taken his place on the oak bench, when as usual two strangers took their places in a seat that was usually occupied by any chance worshiper. Most of the little congregation were familiar with the features of the younger man, and every one in the village knew that the tall, broad-shouldered man with the fair beard and handsome, aristocratic face was the young master from Redmond Hall, who was to marry Miss Margaret, the vicar's sister. But even young Sam Tibbs leaves off admiring his hob-nailed boots to stare at the brown, sickly-looking gentleman with the white mustache that occupies the other end of the seat; and Margaret, sitting with the school-children, looks curiously in the same direction, for this is the first time that she has seen Sir Wilfred Redmond since his return from Persia. Both father and son are wonderfully alike, she thinks; they have both the same heavy-lidded, blue-gray eyes, the same proud carriage of the head and stately presence; but the bright, sunshiny smile that greeted her from Hugh Redmond is certainly not reproduced on his father's somber face. Sir Wilfred looked ill and saddened; and evidently the report that ill-health had brought his researches to a speedy end was probably true. Sir Wilfred listened with grave attention to Mr. Ferrers's eloquent sermon. The deep, musical voice, and fine delivery seemed to rivet him; he sat motionless, with his thin hands grasping each other, his eyes fixed on the pale, powerful face which the morning sunshine touched with a sort of glory.