CHAPTER VII.
MAJOR BUCKLEY GIVES HIS OPINION ON TROUT-FISHING, ON EMIGRATION, AND ON GEORGE HAWKER.
Spring had come again, after a long wet winter, and every orchard-hollow blushed once more with appleblossoms.

In warm sheltered southern valleys hedges were already green, and even the tall hedgerow-elms began, day after day, to grow more shady and dense.
It was a bright April morning, about ten o'clock, when Mary Thornton, throwing up her father's studywindow from the outside, challenged him to come out and take a walk; and John, getting his hat and stick, immediately joined her in front of the house.
"Where is your aunt, my love ?" said John.
"She is upstairs," said Mary.

"I will call her." She began throwing gravel at one of the upper windows, and crying out, "Auntie! Auntie!" The sash was immediately thrown (no, that is too violent a word--say lifted) up, and a beautiful old lady's face appeared at the window.
"My love," it said, in a small, soft voice, "pray be careful of the windows.

Did you want anything, my dear ?" "I want you out for a walk, Auntie; so come along." "Certainly, my love.

Brother, have you got your thick kerchief in your pocket ?" "No," said the Vicar, "I have not, and I don't mean to have." Commencement of a sore-throat lecture from the window, cut short by the Vicar, who says,-- "My dear, I shall be late if you don't come;" (jesuitically on his part, for he was going nowhere.) So she comes accordingly, as sweet-looking an old maid as ever you saw in your life.