One sweet evening, in the latter part of summer, our mother took her two little boys by the hand, for a wander about the fields.

In the course of our stroll we came to the village church; an old, gray-headed sexton stood in the porch, who, perceiving that we were strangers, invited us to enter.

We were presently in the interior, wandering about the aisles, looking on the walls, and inspecting the monuments of the notable dead.

I can scarcely state what we saw; how should I?
I was a child not yet four years old, and yet I think I remember the evening sun streaming in through a stained window upon the dingy mahogany pulpit, and flinging a rich lustre upon the faded tints of an ancient banner.

And now once more we were outside the building, where, against the wall, stood a low-eaved pent-house, into which we looked.