"I am in your debt," said she, "for that tale you
read to us the other day; I will now furnish one in return, if you'll
read it: and it is just suited to this sweet May morning, for it is
all about love!"
The proposition seemed to delight every one present. The captain
smiled assent. Her ladyship rung for her page, and despatched him to
her room for the manuscript. "As the captain," said she, "gave us an
account of the author of his story, it is but right I should give one
of mine. It was written by the parson of the parish where I reside. He
is a thin, elderly man, of a delicate constitution, but positively one
of the most charming men that ever lived. He lost his wife a few years
since; one of the sweetest women you ever saw. He has two sons, whom
he educates himself; both of whom already write delightful poetry. His
parsonage is a lovely place, close by the church, all overrun with ivy
and honeysuckles; with the sweetest flower-garden about it; for, you
know, our country clergymen are almost always fond of flowers, and
make their parsonages perfect pictures.
"His living is a very good one, and he is very much beloved, and does
a great deal of good in the neighbourhood, and among the poor.
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