It is the Severn; though at this distance you can't perceive it; yet it is deep enough too, as you may see by the boats it carries.

You would hardly believe so, to look at it here--but I believe it gets broader and broader, and turns out a noble river by the time it reaches the King's Roads, and forms the Bristol Channel." "I've seen that!" cried John, with a bright look.

"Ah, I like the Severn." He stood gazing at it a good while, a new expression dawning in his eyes.

Eyes in which then, for the first time, I watched a thought grow, and grow, till out of them was shining a beauty absolutely divine.
All of a sudden the Abbey chimes burst out, and made the lad start.
"What's that ?" "Turn again, Whittington, Lord Mayor of London," I sang to the bells; and then it seemed such a commonplace history, and such a very low degree of honour to arrive at, that I was really glad I had forgotten to tell John the story.

I merely showed him where, beyond our garden wall, and in the invisible high road that interposed, rose up the grim old Abbey tower.
"Probably this garden belonged to the Abbey in ancient time--our orchard is so fine.