Aware of the footman hovering, and the hackney coachman’s curious eyes looking down from his box, Gerald leaned a little towards her and spoke in a lowered tone. Ann Veronica, who knew her dress became her, dropped a curtsy to her father’s regard. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. Bulging out more in the middle than at the two extremities, it resembled an enormous cask set on its end, —a sort of Heidelberg tun on a large scale,—and this resemblance was increased by the small circular aperture—it hardly deserved to be called a door—pierced, like the bung-hole of a barrell, through the side of the structure, at some distance from the ground, and approached by a flight of wooden steps. The clouds were nearly black with rain, threatening to spill sleet in daggers and torrents.
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