Two boys--cottagers' children--come home from school; they look round to see that no one observes, and then throw flints at the paper till the sound of footsteps alarms them.
Towards the evening a gentleman and lady, the first middle-aged, the latter very young--father and daughter--approach, their horses seeming to linger as they walk through the shallow stream, and the cool water splashes above their fetlocks.

The shooting season is near at hand, Parliament has risen, and the landlords have returned home.

Instead of the Row, papa must take his darling a ride through the lanes, a little dusty as the autumn comes on, and pauses to read the notice on the wall.

It is his neighbour's tenant, not his, but it comes home to him here.

It is the real thing--the fact--not the mere seeing it in the papers, or the warning hints in the letters of his own steward.