"I suppose you have been enjoying the sweet business of squiredom," said
Vargrave, gayly: "Atticus and his farm,--classical associations!
Charming weather for the agriculturists, eh! What news about corn and
barley? I suppose our English habit of talking on the weather arose when
we were all a squirearchal farming, George-the-Third kind of people!
Weather is really a serious matter to gentlemen who are interested in
beans and vetches, wheat and hay. You hang your happiness upon the
changes of the moon!"

"As you upon the smiles of a minister. The weather of a court is more
capricious than that of the skies,--at least we are better husbandmen
than you who sow the wind and reap the whirlwind."

"Well retorted: and really, when I look round, I am half inclined to envy
you. Were I not Vargrave, I would be Maltravers."

It was, indeed, a scene that seemed quiet and serene, with the English
union of the feudal and the pastoral life,--the village-green, with its
trim scattered cottages; the fields and pastures that spread beyond; the
turf of the park behind, broken by the shadows of the unequal grounds,
with its mounds and hollows and venerable groves, from which rose the
turrets of the old Hall, its mullion windows gleaming in the western sun;
a scene that preached tranquillity and content, and might have been
equally grateful to humble philosophy and hereditary pride.

"I never saw any place so peculiar in its character as Burleigh," said
the rector; "the old seats left to us in England are chiefly those of our
great nobles. It is so rare to see one that does not aspire beyond the
residence of a private gentleman preserve all the relics of the Tudor