The truth was impossible, indecent. 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. Instantly seizing it, the young man placed it in the carriage, shut the door, and commanded his servants to drive off. I decline to waste a single second even in considering the ugly ones. “We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other.
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