The carriage was slowly ascending the road to the old church, a familiar and dear object to each member of the Weston family.

A village churchyard fills up so gradually, that one is not startled with a sudden change.

Mr.
Weston looked from the window at the ivy, and the gothic windows, and the family vault, where many of his name reposed.
The inmates of the carriage had been conversing cheerfully, but as they approached the point where they would see home, each one was occupied with his or her musings.

Occasionally, a pleasant word was exchanged, on the appearance of the well-known neighborhood, the balmy air, and the many shades of green that the trees presented; some of them loaded with white and pink blossoms, promising still better things when the season should advance.
Alice leaned from the window, watching for the first glimpse of the well-remembered house.

She greeted every tree they passed with a lively look, and smiled gaily as the porter's lodge presented itself.