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A Tale of a Lonely Parish by F. Marion (Francis Marion) Crawford
page 23 of 373 (06%)
He gave her names, a dozen of them every day, christening her after every
heroine in fiction and history of whom he had ever read. But no name
seemed to suit her well enough; whereupon he wrote a Greek ode and a
Latin epistle to the fair unknown, but omitted to show them to the
Reverend Augustin Ambrose, though he was quite certain that they were the
best he had ever produced. Then he began to write a novel, but suddenly
recollected that a famous author had written one entitled "No Name," and
as that was the only title he could possibly give to the work he
contemplated he of course had no choice but to abandon the work itself.
He wrote more verses, and he dreamed more dreams, and he meanwhile
acquired much learning and in process of time realised that he had but a
few days longer to stay at Billingsfield. The Michaelmas term was about
to open and he must bid farewell to the hospitable roof and the learned
conversation of the good vicar. But when those last days came he realised
that he was leaving the scene of his only dream, and his heart grew sad.

Indeed he loved the old red brick vicarage with its low porch, overgrown
with creepers, its fragrant old flower garden, surrounding it on three
sides, its gabled roof, its south wall whereon the vicar constantly
attempted to train fig trees, maintaining that the climate of England had
grown warmer and that he would prove it--John loved it all, and
especially he loved the little study, lined with the books grown familiar
to him, and the study door, the door through which he had seen that
lovely face which he firmly believed was to inspire him to do great
things and to influence his whole life for ever after. He would leave the
door open and place himself just where he had sat that day, and then he
would look suddenly up with beating heart, almost fancying he could again
see those violet eyes gazing at him from the dusky passage--blushing then
to himself, like any girl, and burying himself in his book till the fancy
was grown too strong and he looked up again. He had attempted to sketch
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