Where it goes ?' I told her, and silence returned.
Church Scarsdale is a very pretty and odd scene.

The slightly undulating sheep-walk dips suddenly into a wide glen, in the lap of which, by a bright, winding rill, rise from the sward the ruins of a small abbey, with a few solemn trees scattered round.

The crows' nests hung untenanted in the trees; the birds were foraging far away from their roosts.

The very cattle had forsaken the place.

It was solitude itself.
Madame drew a long breath and smiled.
'Come down, come down, cheaile--come down to the churchyard.' As we descended the slope which shut out the surrounding world, and the scene grew more sad and lonely.