in the early part of this volume of the very different manner
in which the working classes may receive the remuneration for
their toil, will probably agree with the sensible and virtuous
master of Walter Gerard.

He, accompanied by his daughter and Egremont, is now on his
way home. A soft summer afternoon; the mild beam still
gilding the tranquil scene; a river, green meads full of kine,
woods vocal with the joyous song of the thrush and the
blackbird; and in the distance, the lofty breast of the purple
moor, still blazing in the sun: fair sights and renovating
sounds after a day of labour passed in walls and amid the
ceaseless and monotonous clang of the spindle and the loom.
So Gerard felt it, as he stretched his great limbs in the air
and inhaled its perfumed volume.

"Ah! I was made for this, Sybil," he exclaimed; "but never
mind, my child, never mind; tell me more of your fine
visitors."

Egremont found the walk too short; fortunately from the
undulation of the vale, they could not see the cottage until
within a hundred yards of it. When they were in sight, a man
came forth from the garden to greet them; Sybil gave an
exclamation of pleasure; it was MORLEY.




Book 3 Chapter 9