CHAPTER XX.
THE VICARAGE--KEZIAH--THE DEAR BOYS--THE COOK--A YORKSHIRE TEA--BED-FELLOWS.
It was Midsummer.

The heavy foliage brushed our faces as "the old mare," with slack reins upon her back, drew us soberly up the steep drive, and stood still, of her own accord, before a substantial-looking house, built--"like everything else," I thought--of stone.

Huge rose-bushes--literal _bushes_, not "dwarfs" or "standards"-- the growth of many years, bent under their load of blossoms.

The old "maiden's blush," too rare now in our bedding plant gardens, the velvety "damask," the wee Scotch roses, the prolific white, and the curious "York and Lancaster," with monster moss-rose trees, hung over the carriage-road.
The place seemed almost overgrown with vegetation, like the palace of the Sleeping Beauty.
As we turned the corner towards the house, Eleanor put out her left hand and dragged off a great branch of "maiden's blush." She forgot the recoil, which came against my face.

All the full-blown flowers shed their petals over me, and I made my first appearance at the Vicarage covered with rose-leaves.
It was Keziah who welcomed us, and I have always had an affection for her in consequence.