THE RECTOR 
He was one of the old school — a scion of an old county 
family, highbred and handsome in appearance, always dig- 
nified, well-brushed, and courteous alike to prince and 
peasant. It was a rare pleasure to hear him read, whether 
it were the beautiful prayers of the old English liturgy, 
rolling forth his petitions as if he hoped to take far Heaven 
by storm, or by his own fireside, when, having carefully 
adjusted his gold spectacles, he took his beloved Herrick or 
Milton, and opened at some favourite passage. The fresh 
morning sweetness of Wordsworth and Cowper were his 
delight. But once the weather admitted of his working 
among his flowers, much to the disgust of Mrs. Bread, his 
old housekeeper, he was, as she put it, “ allays a-grubbin’ 
in that garden ! ” He was sufficiently well-to-do to keep a 
curate, who worked energetically in the small and quiet 
parish. Mr. Howard confined himself to going occasional 
rounds of visits and preaching a taking sermon once a 
week. But there was always plenty of broth and port-wine 
to be had at the Rectory, and Mrs. Bread declared she 
might as well keep house for a man with ten children at 
once as for the solitary Rector. 
The Rectory was a square, solid-looking house, with bay- 
windows. There were Red Roses climbing up the walls, but 
Mr. Howard did not allow the Roses’ wild spreading branches 
full scope ; he trimmed them sufficiently to allow the 
windows to open. “I love fresh air,” he said; “neither 
man nor beast can live without air.” There was a Fig-tree, 
too, on one more sheltered wall of the house. It was 
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