As we went up the drive (so familiar to me and poor little Rubens!) I
thought I had never seen the Rector's garden in richer beauty, or
heard such a chorus from the birds he loved and protected. Indeed the
border plants were luxuriant almost to disorder. It struck me that Mr.
Andrewes had not been gardening for some time. Perhaps this idea led
me to notice how ill he looked when I went indoors. But dinner seemed
to revive him, and then in the warm summer sunset we strolled outside
again. The Rector leant heavily on my arm. He made some joke about my
height, I remember. (I was proud of having grown so tall, and
secretly thought well of my general appearance in the tail-coat of
"fifth form.") With one arm I supported Mr. Andrewes, the other hung
at my side, into the hand of which Sweep ever and anon thrust his nose
caressingly.
"How well the garden looks!" I said. "And your birds are giving you a
farewell concert."
"Ah! You think so too?" said the Rector, quickly.
I was puzzled. "You are going to-morrow, are you not?" I said.
"Yes, of course. I see," said the Rector laughing. "I was thinking of
a longer journey. How superstitions do cling to north-countrymen!
We've a terrible lot of Paganism in us yet, for all the Christians
that we are!"
"What was your superstition just now?" said I.
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