Bressant

Above the house and the road rose a rugged eminence, sparely clothed

with patches of grass, brambles, and huckleberry-bushes, the gray knots

of rock pushing up here and there between. On the summit appeared

against the sky the outskirts of a sturdy forest, paradise of nuts and

squirrels. The rough road ran between rude stone-fences and straggling

apple-trees to the village, lying some two miles to the southeast. About

two hundred yards beyond the Parsonage--so Professor Valeyon's house was

called, he, in times past, having officiated as pastor of the

village--it made a sharp turn to the left around a spur of the hill,

bringing into view the tall white steeple of the village meeting-house,

relieved against the mountainous background beyond.

They dined in the Parsonage at two o'clock. At about three the professor

was wont to cross the entry to his study, take his pipe from its place

on the high wooden mantel-piece, fill it from the brown earthen-ware

tobacco-box on the table, and stepping through the window on to the

balcony, takes his place in his chair. Here he would sit sometimes till

sundown, composed in body and mind; dreaming, perhaps, over the rough

pathway of his earlier life, and facilitating the process by exhaling

long wreaths of thinnest smoke-layers from his mouth, and ever and anon

crossing and recrossing his legs.

On the present afternoon it was really very hot. Professor Valeyon,

occupying his usual position, had nearly finished his second pipe. He

had thrown off the light linen duster he usually wore, and sat with his

waistcoat open, displaying a somewhat rumpled, but very clean white

shirt-bosom; and his sturdy old neck was swathed in the white necktie

which was the only visible relic of his ministerial career. He had

covered his bald head with a handkerchief, for the double purpose of

keeping away the flies, and creating a cooling current of air. One of

his down-trodden slippers had dropped off, and lay sole-upward on the

floor. There was no symptom of a breeze in the still, warm valley, nor

even on the jagged ridges of the opposing hills. The professor, with all

his appliances for coolness and comfort, felt the need of one strongly.

Mellowed by the distance, the long shriek of the engine, on its way from

New York, streamed upon his ears and set him thinking. A good many years

since he had been to New York!--nine, positively nine--not since the

year after his wife's death. It hardly seemed so long, looking back upon

it. He wondered whether time had passed as silently and swiftly to his

daughters as to him. At all events, they had grown in the interval from

little girls into young ladies--Cornelia nineteen, and Sophie not more

than a year younger. "Bless me!" murmured the professor aloud, taking

the pipe from his mouth, and bringing his heavy eyebrows together in a

thoughtful frown.