The progress of time was marked in Mr.
Wood by increased corpulence and decreased powers of vision,--by deeper wrinkles and higher shoulders, by scantier breath and a fuller habit.
Still he looked hale and hearty, and the country life he led had imparted a ruddier glow to his cheek.

Around him were all the evidences of plenty.

A world of haystacks, bean-stacks, and straw-ricks flanked the granges adjoining his habitation; the yard was crowded with poultry, pigeons were feeding at his feet, cattle were being driven towards the stall, horses led to the stable, a large mastiff was rattling his chain, and stalking majestically in front of his kennel, while a number of farming-men were passing and repassing about their various occupations.
At the back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned terrace-garden, full of apple-trees and other fruit-trees in blossom, and lively with the delicious verdure of early spring.
Hearing the approach of the rider, Mr.Wood turned to look at him.

It was now getting dusk, and he could only imperfectly distinguish the features and figure of the stranger.
"I need not ask whether this is Mr.Wood's," said the latter, "since I find him at his own gate." "You are right, Sir," said the worthy carpenter, rising.

"I am Owen Wood, at your service." "You do not remember me, I dare say," observed the stranger.
"I can't say I do," replied Wood.