Passing the old rectory, and still older church, with its reverend screen of trees, and slowly ascending a hill side, from whence he obtained enchanting peeps of the spire and college of Harrow, he reached the cluster of well-built houses which constitute the village of Neasdon. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. One thing may be a necessary collateral of the others. The trader you spoke about: he disliked your father, didn't he? Well, he probably played your father a horrible practical joke. ‘You see, it is that my papa, he is without sympathy,’ said the lady sadly.
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