CHAPTER XIII.
"The rose of Lancaster for lack of nurture pales." -- BLACKBURN BARD.
It was early on a fine morning in July when I next set off to see Preston again; the long-continued rains seemed to be ended, and the unclouded sun flooded all the landscape with splendour.

All nature rejoiced in the change, and the heart of man was glad.

In Clifton Vale, the white-sleeved mowers were at work among the rich grass, and the scent of new hay came sweetly through our carriage windows.
In the leafy cloughs and hedges, the small birds were wild with joy, and every garden sent forth a goodly smell.

Along its romantic vale the glittering Irwell meandered, here, through nooks, "o'erhung wi' wildwoods, thickening green;" and there, among lush unshaded pastures; gathering on its way many a mild whispering brook, whose sunlit waters laced the green land with freakish lines of trembling gold.

To me this ride is always interesting, so many points of historic interest line the way; but it was doubly delightful on that glorious July morning.