VILLAGE POLITICS.
[CHAPTER III.]
STILL UNDER THE ELM TREES.
"RATHER a pleasant sort of gentleman after all," remarked Timothy Turnbull, looking after the stranger, and rising respectfully to greet the new-comer, who, begging both the gossips to keep their seats, sat down on the opposite bench to rest, and leaning forward, began to trace lines in the dust at his feet with his walking stick, and to speak as if musing on the lawyer's parting words.
"Yes, quite true; our ancestors survived that storm, and it will be well for us if we are lodged in a better ark with a greater than he, and safe to outride the more awful storm which will some day sweep away the usurper's frail barriers and false distinctions, and restore the lost inheritance to its rightful heir."
"Sir!" said the landlord, taking out his pipe and gazing curiously at the speaker.
"Eh!" said the sexton, rubbing his forehead with a puzzled air. "Surely you think that poor Master Guy may come to his own again, sir?"
"I fear not, friends; but I hope he will come to something better—'an inheritance that fadeth not away,' and if his name and ours are 'written in heaven' in the Book of Life, it will matter very little where they stand in the pedigrees of men, and the title deeds of earth. So let us all see that we hold our own by the safe and lasting title."
"And what may that be, sir, to your way of thinking?" asked Timothy, feeling that he must say something to break an awkward pause.