One morning, early in the month of August, a few years since, the sun rose lazily and luxuriously over the hills that bounded the little village of Aston, which lay in one of the prettiest valleys of Gloucestershire. The golden beams of that glorious luminary falling first upon the ivy-covered tower of the little church, seemed, to the eye of fancy, to linger with pleasure round the sacred edifice, as if glad to recognize the altar of Him, who, from the beginning, had fixed his daily course through the bright circle of the heavens, then pouring a flood of brilliancy on the simple rectory, danced over the hills, and played with the many windows of the old Manor House, which, situated at a short distance from the church, formed one of the most striking objects of the village.

Only here and there a thick volume of smoke rose from the cottages scattered over the valley, while the only living object visible was a young man, who thus early walked down the steep and winding path, which led from the rectory, and strolled leisurely forward, as if attracted by the beauties of the early morning. The slow pace with which he moved seemed to betoken either indolence or fatigue, while his dress, which was of the latest fashion, slightly contrasted with the ancient-looking simplicity of the place.

Captain Clair, for such was his name, had quitted his regiment, then in India, and returned to England, with the hope of recruiting his health, which had been considerably impaired by his residence abroad.

On the preceding evening, he had arrived at the rectory, upon a visit to his uncle, who wished him to try the bracing air of Gloucestershire as a change from town, where he had been lingering for some little time since his return to England.

In person, the young officer was slight and well made, with a becoming military air; his countenance light and fresh colored, spite of Indian suns, and, on the whole, prepossessing, though not untinged by certain worldly characters, as if he had entered perhaps too thoughtlessly on a world of sin and temptation.

There is, however, something still and holy in the early morning, when the sin and folly of nature has slept, or seemed to sleep, and life again awakes with fresh energy to labor. The dew from heaven has not fallen upon the herb alone, it seems to rest upon the spirit of man which rises full of renewed strength to that toil before which it sank heavily at eve; and as Captain Clair felt the breeze rising with its dewy incense to heaven, his mind seemed to receive fresh impetus, and his thoughts a higher tone. Languidly as he pursued his way, his eye drank in the beauties of a new country, with all the fervour of a poetical imagination.

On the right and left of the village, as he entered it, were high hills, covered with brushwood, a few cottages, with their simple gardens, lay in the hollow, and the church, standing nearly alone, was built a little above these, having the hill on the left immediately behind it. There was great beauty in that simple church, with that thickly covered hill above, and nothing near to disturb its solemnity.

Further on, the hills opened, and gave a view of the whole country beyond, presenting a scene of loveliness very common in our fertile island. A small but beautiful river wound through the valley, carrying life and fertility along its banks. Wide spreading oaks and tall beeches, with the graceful birch and chestnut trees bending their lower branches nearly to the green turf beneath, enclosed the grounds of the Manor House, which, built on a gentle ascent, looked down on the peaceful valley below.

The house, itself, was a fine old building, well suited to the habits of a country gentleman, though not so large as the gardens and plantation surrounding it, might have admitted. These had been gradually acquired by each successive owner of the mansion, who took pleasure in adding to the family estate by purchasing all property immediately adjoining, but had wisely refrained from patching and spoiling the house itself.

Captain Clair was determined to admire every thing; he had got up unusually early, and that in itself was a meritorious action, which put him in perfect good humour with himself. It was a very pleasant morning, too, numbers of insects, he had scarcely ever seen or thought of since he was a boy, attracted his attention, and flew out from the dewy hedges, over which the white lily, or bindweed, hung in careless grace. The butterfly awoke, and sported in the sunshine—and the bee went forth to the busy labors of the day, humming the song of cheerful industry. All combined to bring back long forgotten days of innocent childhood and boyish mirth; the pulse which an Indian clime had weakened, beat quicker, and his spirits revived before the influence of happy memories and the healthy breezes of the Cotswold. Then, as the morning advanced, he lingered to watch the movements of the villagers, and to muse upon the characters of the inmates of the different cottages as he passed them, and to observe that those who dwelt in the neatest were those who stirred the first. The labourers had gone to their work, and now the windows and doors were opened, and children came forth to play.

As he returned again to reach the rectory in time for its early breakfast, he perceived one dwelling much superior in character to those around it, with its antique gable front ornamented with carefully arranged trelliswork, over which creepers twined in flowery luxuriance, and the simple lawn sloping down towards the road, from which a low, sunk fence divided it. Here, careless of observation, a young child had seated herself—her straw hat upon the turf beside her, while she was busily engaged in twining for it a wreath of the wild lily, forgetful that in a few minutes its beauty would perish; she was a lovely child, the outline of her infantine features was almost faultless, and her little face dimpled with smiles as she looked up from her occupation to nod some brief salutation to the poor men as they passed her on their way home.

Arthur Clair could scarcely tell, why, of all the objects he had observed that morning, none should make so deep an impression as the sight of that young child, or why he felt almost sad, as he thought of her twining those fading flowers, and as he strolled on, why, he looked at nothing further, but still found himself musing on the delicate features of that young face.

When he reached the garden gate, he found his uncle strolling about, waiting for him.

Mr. Ware was a fine looking old gentleman, with silver hair curling over a wide and expansive forehead. Though a little under the middle height, there was a gentle dignity in his manner that could scarcely fail to be noticed, or if not noticed, it was sure to be felt. He was neither very witty, nor very learned—yet none knew him very long without liking him. His face, not originally striking, had become more handsome as he had grown older—for the struggle between good and evil, which must be in every well principled mind, a perpetual struggle, had been carried on by him for many years, and so successfully, that each year brought heaven nearer to the good man's thoughts; and now, as the race was so nearly finished, his zeal became more earnest, and his conscience more tender; fearing, lest, after a life spent in his Master's service, he might be found lingering at the last, and lose the prize for which he had been so long striving. In his eye was that look of serenity and peace which seemed to say, "he feared no evil tidings;" for he walked continually under the protection, which only can give that feeling of security which those who have it not would bestow great riches to possess. We have lingered longer than we at first intended in description, but, perhaps not too long.

When we look back to the innocence of childhood, we sigh to think that we can never be children again; we recall that happy time when the world had not written its own characters of sin and falsehood in our hearts; we sigh to think that childhood is gone—but no sigh will recall it. But when we see an old man who has passed the waves of this troublesome world, true to the faith with which he entered life, we feel that here is an example which we may follow. Childhood we have left behind, but old age is before us, and if we live on, must come; and, as the body decays, do we not feel that the spirit should increase in holiness and strength, preparing itself for that beautiful world of light which it must enter or die.

Mr. Ware had resided for many years at Aston; when a younger man, he had been tutor, for a few months, to Colonel Hargrave, the present possessor of the Aston property—and though with his pupil, only during a tour through Italy, the attachment between them was such, that the young man solicited his father to prefer his tutor to Aston, when that living became vacant, partly, he told him, from his wish to secure himself a friend and companion, whenever he visited home. Mr. Ware gratefully accepted an offer which at once placed him in independence; and, as soon as he had settled himself in his new house, he carried one of his favourite projects into execution, by sending for his only sister, who had been obliged to procure her livelihood as a governess; his own small means being, since their father's death, insufficient for both.

It was not then for his own sake entirely that he rejoiced in his improved circumstances. When he drove his neat little carriage to meet his sister, and when he brought her home, and shewed her his house—their house as he called it—with its pretty comfortable sitting-room, looking out upon the garden, and the neat little chamber, where all her old favourite books—recovered from the friend who had taken charge of them during her wanderings—rested upon the neatly arranged shelves, he felt as happy as man can wish to be. And when, with eyes glistening with pleasure, he assured her that it was her home as long as she lived—he said what he never found reason to repent, for the cheerful face of his companion bore perpetual remembrance of his brotherly kindness.

He had once thought of marriage; but the idea had now passed away entirely. In early years, he had been sincerely attached to a school friend of his sister's, whom he had met during one of his Oxford vacations; but she died early, leaving her memory too deeply impressed, to make him wish to replace it by giving his affection to another. His sister, now almost his only near relative, had sympathised, most sincerely, in his loss, and had endeavoured to aid his own manly judgment in regaining that cheerfulness of tone so necessary for the right discharge of the every-day duties of life. She had been rewarded by the more than usual continuation of a brother's early love and esteem, and she had, therefore, no scruple of accepting his offer of protection, and a home.

From that time, she had continued to keep his house with the most cheerful attention to his wishes and whims, and with an evenness of temper which had always been peculiar to her.

There was an air of gaiety about the whole house; the two maid-servants and the old gardener seemed to possess peculiarly good tempers—they were, indeed, scarcely ever disturbed, and we may venture to add, that they were not very much overworked.

There were hives of bees in the garden, chickens in the court-yard, and the gaily-feathered cock strutting about, giving a lazy crow now and then—all seeming to take their ease, and enjoy themselves. In fact, there was a blessing on the good man's home, that was always smiling round it.

It was to this pleasant abode that the young soldier had come down wearied with London amusements, like some strange being who had yet to find a place in its social order.

"You are fortunate, sir," he said, as he strolled down the garden by his uncle's side, "in your neighbourhood. I have seldom seen anything before more comfortably beautiful, if I may use the expression."

"I am glad you like it," replied Mr. Ware, "and I assure you I shall be quite contented if it has the power to make you spend a month or two here agreeably. If you are fond of scenery, there are many places worth seeing, even within a walking distance."

"I suppose the Manor House is amongst the number?" observed his nephew, "I have been admiring it extremely. I cannot think why Hargrave does not come down here. Has he been since he came into the property?"

"Yes—but only once, and then only for a short while; but you speak as if you knew him?"

"A little," replied Clair, "he came home with us from Malta; but friendship, sometimes, ripen fast. He found out my relationship to you, which commenced our acquaintance; I was charmed with him—indeed, I scarcely ever met more variety in any character. Sometimes I could scarcely keep pace with his flow of spirits, and then he would fall into a fit of musing, piquing my curiosity to discover why so great a change should take place, as it were, in an instant—in short, I'd defy any one to get into his confidence. But you know him, sir?"

"Yes," said Mr. Ware, "I knew him very well at one time; his father sent me with him to Italy, and in return, the generous boy obtained me this preferment. But I have not seen him now, I think, for six or seven years—though we write to each other occasionally. You must tell me more about him at your leisure, however, for he is a great favourite with Mary as well as myself; but now, I think, you must be ready for breakfast—Mary is waiting for us, I see. Afterwards, if you are not tired, we will pay a visit to the church—there are two or three monuments of the Hargrave family worth looking at."

"You are very kind," replied Clair, "I am sure I feel better already with the fresh country air—and health after sickness is happiness itself, sometimes."

At this moment, Miss Ware opened the glass door which led into the garden. She was dressed, with studied simplicity, in a black silk gown, with white muslin apron, and her cap, looking as white as snow, fastened round the head by a broad lilac ribbon; but the smile upon her face was the best of all, and was never wanting at the breakfast-table, for she always maintained that no one had a right to be dull after a good night's rest, or to anticipate the troubles of the day before they came.

"Good morning, Edmund," said she to her brother, "and good morning, Arthur," giving her hand to her nephew. "I was just preparing to send your breakfast up-stairs, when I heard you had been out for more than two hours."

"I am not sorry to save you the trouble of nursing me, aunt—I have had enough of that in London," said Clair, gaily, as he followed her to the morning-room, where breakfast waited them. The meal was dispatched with cheerfulness, and he amused his aunt by an account of his walk, and the guesses which it had allowed him to make of the character of their poorer neighbours, with whom she was herself well acquainted.

After breakfast, Mr. Ware invited him to join his morning ramble.

"I shall have an opportunity," he said, as they descended the hill leading to the lower part of the village, "of pointing out to you some of the evils of absenteeism—of which you have, doubtless, heard much. I have always noticed, that what we gain from our own observation is worth much more than the information of others. In this little spot, unhappily, you will see very much to condemn. I have already told you that our landlord, Colonel Hargrave, has not been here for more than six years, and before that visit, which was chiefly occupied in field sports, his sojourn here had been very rare, for his talented mind led him to seek the more extensive knowledge to be gained from foreign travel, even before he entered the army. His father, who has now been dead some years, constantly resided here, till the death of his wife, which made Aston a very different place from what it is at present. Poor Mrs. Hargrave was universally beneficent, and was so much loved and respected by the people in this neighbourhood, rich as well as poor, that her name is scarcely ever mentioned without the title of 'good' being added to it. The time when good Mrs. Hargrave lived is always looked back upon with affectionate regret. When she died, however, her husband, who was passionately fond of her, took a distaste to a place which constantly reminded him of his loss, and he only paid very casual visits to it during the remainder of his life, which did not last long after the domestic blow he had sustained. At present, the estate is in the hands of a rapacious bailiff, who amply fulfils that proverb, which says, 'A poor man that oppresseth the poor is like a sweeping rain which leaveth no food.' Unfortunately, I have no influence with him, and as he has to pay me tithe, he regards me in the light of others who are dependent upon him. It is an unhappy state of things, certainly, for the wages of the poor laborers employed on the estate, are, in some cases, kept back for months together. You may easily fancy how difficult it is for men to live under these circumstances, having no other resource beyond the fruit of their labors."

They had, by this time, reached the hollow between the two hills, where a great many cottages were situated. About them was an appearance of neglect, that is, at all times, disagreeable to contemplate. In most parts, the thatch had become blackened by the weather, and here and there pieces of it had been blown off by the high winds, or were kept in place only by heavy stones laid upon the roof. In some places the walls, which bounded the little gardens, had been suffered to crumble down—loose stones lying in the gaps, but no effort seemed to have been made to replace them. A ditch ran along the road, partially covered with long grass and weeds; but the glimpses here and there afforded of it, told that it was used as a receptacle for the drains of that part of the parish—and a noxious stench arose from it exercising a baneful influence, as might be seen by the pale faces of the children who played about it.

Added to this, there was a desponding tone over the general features of the place, which might have accounted for the wastes of ground which might be seen, here and there, covered with weeds, rather than converted to any useful purpose.

"Surely," said Clair, attracting his uncle's attention, "this self-neglect cannot be attributed to Hargrave?"

"Not altogether," replied Mr. Ware, "this is an evil which I hope time will remedy; there is, indeed, no excuse for it; yet the reason I believe simply to be, that the people, losing their accustomed stimulant, arising from a resident family, and depressed by the low and uncertain wages they receive from an oppressive bailiff, have not yet learned to take care of themselves; but yet I hope, from day to day," said the good man, looking round, "it would not do for me to despond as well as the rest."

Stepping over a small plank that crossed the ditch, they entered one of the cottages. The interior presented a kind of untidy comfort; a large heap of fuel lay in one corner, and a bed was at one side, and seemed used as a substitute for a seat during the day. The windows, where panes had been broken, were filled up with dirty rags; two or three children were playing about with naked feet, and their mother, a remarkably pretty young woman, was working at the darkened window. By the fire was seated a strong hale young man, with his hands upon his knees, contemplating it with gloomy fixedness. A red cap ornamented his head, and partly shaded a pair of dark eyes, and a scowling countenance.

Mr. Ware could not but enter the cottage with the consciousness that he was not particularly welcome; yet this did not render his visits less frequent.

"Well, Martin," said he, "I am sorry to see you at home, for I fear you are out of work."

The man answered, without rising from his seat—

"I am out of work, and so I am likely to remain, I suppose. It is up-hill work to have nothing better to look to than this comes to—and it is very hard to be owed ever so much money, which I have earned by as honest labor as was ever given in exchange for money. I have heard you read—'cursed is he that keepeth a man's wages all night by him until the morning,'—but I don't know what would be said to him that can keep them for months, letting a poor man starve, without thinking of him for a moment. When rent day comes round, then it must be rent, or turn out; we hav'nt got no power in our hands; but I say 'tis a very hard case."

"It is very hard, I allow, Martin," said Mr. Ware, "but the wrong done you does not excuse your sitting here idle; have you been trying for work?"

"Yes, I've been to all the farmers round; but there's none to be got."

"How do you manage to get on then?"

"We live as we can," answered the man, sullenly.

"Well, my good fellow," said Mr. Ware, kindly, "make another effort, and do not sit down here idle all day. I hear that Colonel Hargrave is coming to England shortly, if, indeed, he is not already here."

"We have heard that so often," growled Martin, "that we cannot put any faith in it. He'll never come to do us any good, I reckon."

Mr. Ware offered him a little more advice as to exerting himself, and then, with a small gratuity to his wife, left the cottage with his nephew.

"He is a notorious poacher," said he, as they walked on, "and his excuse is, if they do not give us our own money, we must take an equivalent. It is difficult to preach while poverty and starvation are opposed to the maxims we would wish to inculcate. I wish something could make the Colonel believe the actual state of things; but I do sometimes fear he entirely forgets us. In that neat-looking dwelling," he continued, after a pause, "lives a woman, who has hitherto obtained her livelihood by supplying the poor inhabitants with bread and other necessaries; for some months past, however, Rogers, the bailiff, has found excuses to withhold the wages from most of the workmen engaged in repairing the premises at Aston, and they have been obliged to live upon credit, which this poor woman has been persuaded to give them—in consequence, she tells me, she is nearly ruined; and from the confusion in which her money matters stand, she has fallen quite into a state of melancholy. I went to her yesterday, so that I will not ask you to see her to-day; but we will come in here," he said, at the same time lifting the latch of a door, which opened into a small room, more like some hovel, attached to a tenement which contained several families.

It was a wretched-looking place, and Clair could scarcely suppress a shudder as he entered it. It was but badly lighted from a broken window; an old piece of furniture served, at once, for a table and a sort of cupboard; two chairs, and a stool, completed the furniture, with the exception of a shelf, on which the poverty of the house was displayed, in half a loaf of bread which rested on it. Here an old man sat by the smouldering embers of a wood fire, holding his hands as close to it as possible, as if he hoped to find comfort in the miserable heat it afforded, for his thin hands looked cold, though it was still early in autumn. He welcomed them with pleasure, and offered his two chairs to the gentlemen with ready alacrity, taking possession of the stool for himself.

While Mr. Ware continued talking to the old man, Clair gave a searching glance round the poor dwelling, and trembled to think how the cold December wind would whistle through the old window; but when he thought of asking some questions concerning it, he was checked, by hearing the two old men discourse with such apparent ease and cordiality, as if they had entirely forgotten where they were.

"Is it really possible, sir," said he, when they had left, "that nothing can be done for that poor old man?"

"I fear nothing can be done," returned Mr. Ware, "unless we can persuade Hargrave to return to us."

"But how," enquired Clair, "would his coming remedy the evil."

"It would do so in a great measure," replied Mr. Ware, as they turned homewards. "A man with his wealth could afford to keep all that are now out of labour, well employed. A farmer cannot well afford to pay an old man for the little labour he can give, but a rich landlord can easily find him employment; at a lower rate of wages, of course. Formerly, those who were too old for hard work, were allowed to sweep away the leaves, or clean the weeds from the walks on the estate, which were a few years since beautifully kept. The absence of a rich family in a place where the people have learnt to depend upon them, is a serious loss. You will wonder, perhaps, that I do not instantly, and fully relieve the situation of the old man we visited just now, but the poverty which has prevailed in almost every house during the past year, has been very great; and I have been obliged to divide my charity so as to make it more extensive. Besides, I do not much approve of giving where it can be avoided; and, therefore, husband my means for the scarcity of the coming winter."

"I should have guessed," said his nephew, "that some such motive influenced you, or I know such cases would meet with instant relief—but of one thing, I am certain, Hargrave cannot be aware of this."

"We will hope not," said Mr. Ware, somewhat sadly; "but I have written to him frequently, and if Rogers gave me the proper directions, it is hardly likely my letters have not reached him. It is too probable, that, like many more, he relies too much upon his bailiff."

They had, by this time, reached the rectory, and Clair, exhausted from unusual exercise, threw himself into an arm-chair, and took up a book.