"It must be very nice to have a pedigree," said Molly—"ancestors who wore laced coats and swords, like the characters on the stage. My people, I suppose, wore smock-frocks. I gather the fact because my father never mentioned his father. Smocks go with silence."
"One would rather, I suppose, have a pedigree than not."
"Small shops, also, go with silence. I wonder why one would rather have a grandfather in a smock than in a small shop."
"I will tell you something of the family history. Let us sit down on this tombstone. I always sit here because you can see the church, and the alms-houses, and the school, if you like to take them together. So. Once there was a man named Woodroffe, who lived in this village, seised of a manor, as they say. He was a small country gentleman, an Armiger; I will show you his tomb presently, with his coat of arms. This man—it was five hundred years ago—had four sons. One of them stayed at home, and carried on the family descent; the second son was educated by the Bishop, and rose to the most splendid distinction. He actually became Archbishop of Canterbury and Lord Chancellor of England. Now, the father of these lads had friends or cousins—they came from the next village, where their descendants are living still—in the City of London. So the two younger sons were sent up to town and apprenticed, one to a mercer, and the other to a draper; and one of these became Lord Mayor—think of that!—and the other, Sheriff. There was a wonderful success for you! The effort seems to have exhausted the family, for no one else has ever distinguished himself. Stay; there was an Indian civilian of that name, who died some time ago, but I don't know if he belonged to the family. My own branch has always remained hopelessly undistinguished—squires, and plain gentlemen, and Justices of the Peace. They hunted, flogged vagabonds, and drank port. And, of course, after all these years, one does not know what has become of the citizens' descendants."
"Still, Archbishop, Lord Mayor, and Sheriff—that ought to last a long time."
"It has lasted a long time. Well, when they became old, these men resolved to show their grateful sense of the wonderful success which had been accorded to them. So they came back to their native village, and they replaced the little church by a beautiful and spacious church—there it is!"
Truly it was a great and noble church, of proportions quite beyond the needs of a small village; its tower and spire standing high above all the country round, its recessed porch a marvel of precious work. The windows and the clerestory and the roof may be seen figured in all the books on ecclesiastical architecture as the finest specimens of their style.
"Yes, this church was built by these brothers. They walled the churchyard—this is their old grey wall, with the wallflowers; they built the lych-gate—there it is—in the churchyard; they founded a school for the young—there it is"—she pointed to a small stone hall standing in the north-west corner of the churchyard. It was of the same period and of the same architecture as the church; the windows had the same tracery; the buttresses were covered with yellow lichen: a beautiful and venerable structure. From the building there came a confused murmur of voices. "And on the other side of the church they built an almshouse for the old—there it is"—she pointed to a long low building, also of the same architecture. "So, you see, they provided, in the same enclosure, a place of worship for the living, a place of burial for the dead, a school for the young, and a haven of rest for the old."
The sentiment of the history touched her companion, who looked about her, and murmured—
"It seems a peaceful place."