It's certain I'll never be angelically good.

Mrs.Spencer says--oh, Mr.Cuthbert! Oh, Mr.
Cuthbert!! Oh, Mr.Cuthbert!!!" That was not what Mrs.Spencer had said; neither had the child tumbled out of the buggy nor had Matthew done anything astonishing.

They had simply rounded a curve in the road and found themselves in the "Avenue." The "Avenue," so called by the Newbridge people, was a stretch of road four or five hundred yards long, completely arched over with huge, wide-spreading apple-trees, planted years ago by an eccentric old farmer.

Overhead was one long canopy of snowy fragrant bloom.

Below the boughs the air was full of a purple twilight and far ahead a glimpse of painted sunset sky shone like a great rose window at the end of a cathedral aisle.
Its beauty seemed to strike the child dumb.