href="@public@vhost@g@gutenberg@html@files@49075@[email protected]#CHAPTER_LVIII" class="pginternal" tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">LVIII.—

A HERO’S RETURN 304 LIX.— THE GRAVE OF THE ASTROLOGER 312 LX.— COURTLY MANNERS 316 LXI.— A SAMPLE FROM KENT 322 LXII.— A FAMILY ARRANGEMENT 327 LXIII.— BETTER THAN THE DOCTORS 332 LXIV.— IMPENDING DARKNESS 335 LXV.— A FINE CHRISTMAS SERMON 341 LXVI.— COMING DOWN IN EARNEST 344 LXVII.— THE LAST CHANCE LOST 348 LXVIII.— THE DEATH-BOURNE 353 LXIX.— BOTTLER BEATS THE ELEMENTS 357 LXX.— OH, HARO! HARO! HARO! 361 LXXI.— AN ARGUMENT REFUTED 367 LXXII.— ON LETHE’S WHARF 370 LXXIII.— POLLY’S DOLL 374 LXXIV.— FROM HADES’ GATES 377 LXXV.— SOMETHING LIKE A LEGACY 380 LXXVI.— SCIENTIFIC SOLUTION 385 LXXVII.— HER HEART IS HIS 387 LXXVIII.— THE LAST WORD COMES FROM BONNY 390

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ALICE LORRAINE.

CHAPTER I.
ALL IN THE DOWNS.

Westward of that old town Steyning, and near Washington and Wiston, the lover of an English landscape may find much to dwell upon. The best way to enjoy it is to follow the path along the meadows, underneath the inland rampart of the Sussex hills. Here is pasture rich enough for the daintiest sheep to dream upon; tones of varied green in stripes (by order of the farmer), trees as for a portrait grouped, with the folding hills behind, and light and shadow making love in play to one another. Also, in the breaks of meadow and the footpath bendings, stiles where love is made in earnest, at the proper time of year, with the dark-browed hills imposing everlasting constancy.

Any man here, however sore he may be from the road of life, after sitting awhile and gazing, finds the good will of his younger days revive with a wider capacity. Though he hold no commune with the heights so far above him, neither with the trees that stand in quiet audience soothingly, nor even with the flowers still as bright as in his childhood, yet to himself he must say something—better said in silence. Into his mind, and heart, and soul, without any painful knowledge, or the noisy trouble of thinking, pure content with his native land and its claim on his love are entering. The power of the earth is round him with its lavish gifts of life,—bounty from the lap of beauty, and that cultivated glory which no other land has earned.

Instead of panting to rush abroad and be lost among jagged obstacles, rather let one stay within a very easy reach of home, and spare an hour to saunter gently down this meadow path. Here in a broad bold gap of hedge, with bushes inclined to heal the breach, and mallow-leaves hiding the scar of chalk, here is a stile of no high pretence, and comfortable to gaze from. For hath it not a preface of planks, constructed with deep anatomical knowledge, and delicate study of maiden decorum? And lo! in spite of the planks—as if to show what human nature is—in the body of the stile itself, towards the end of the third bar down, are two