Here, as this cross street rises the hill, are the best houses in the village.

The baker lives here, and that respectable woman, Mrs Frummage, who sells ribbons, and toys, and soap, and straw bonnets, with many other things too long to mention.

Here, too, lives an apothecary, whom the veneration of this and neighbouring parishes has raised to the dignity of a doctor.

And here also, in the smallest but prettiest cottage that can be imagined, lives Mrs Hearn, the widow of a former vicar, on terms, however, with her neighbour the squire which I regret to say are not as friendly as they should be.

Beyond this lady's modest residence, Allington Street, for so the road is called, turns suddenly round towards the church, and at the point of the turn is a pretty low iron railing with a gate, and with a covered way, which leads up to the front door of the house which stands there, I will only say here, at this fag end of a chapter, that it is the Small House at Allington.
Allington Street, as I have said, turns short round towards the church at this point, and there ends at a white gate, leading into the churchyard by a second entrance.
So much it was needful that I should say of Allington Great House, of the Squire, and of the village.