houses near it on the green—cottages, rather—with roses growing all over them."
"And flowering all the year round, especially at Christmas—make your picture complete," said he.
"No," replied Margaret, somewhat annoyed, "I am not making a picture. I am trying to describe Helstone as it really is. You should not have said that."
"I am penitent," he answered. "Only it really sounded like a village in a tale rather than in real life."
"And so it is," replied Margaret, eagerly. "All the other places in England that I have seen seem so hard and prosaic-looking, after the New Forest. Helstone is like a village in a poem—in one of Tennyson's poems. But I won't try and describe it any more. You would only laugh at me if I told you what I think of it—what it really is."
"Indeed, I would not. But I see you are going to be very resolved. Well, then, tell me that which I should like still better to know what the parsonage is like."
"Oh, I can't describe my home. It is home, and I can't put its charm into words."
"I submit. You are rather severe to-night, Margaret."
"How?" said she, turning her large soft eyes round full upon him. "I did not know I was."
"Why, because I made an unlucky remark, you will neither tell me what Helstone is like, nor will you say anything about your home, though I have told you how much I want to hear about both, the latter especially."
"But indeed I cannot tell you about my own