Down below the dam the
shallow water eddied and whirled, breaking in fleecy foam over
protuberant rocks which lay in the river-bed.
The old village church with its modest proportions occupied a
knoll between the hill and the river. It was girdled about with
firs intermingled with elms. Near-by was a small triangular
common, thickly planted with trees, each facing a separate
street. Houses clustered here and there. Comfortable buildings
they were, but built evidently rather for use than show. The
architect had not yet come to the assistance of the village
carpenter.
Seen in the cheering light of the rising sun, Henry Morton could
not help feeling that a beautiful picture was spread out before
him.
"After all," he said thoughtfully, "we needn't go abroad for
beauty, when we can find so much of it at our own doors. Yet,
perhaps the more we see of the beautiful, the better we are
fitted to appreciate it in the wonderful variety of its
numberless forms."
He slowly descended the hill, but in a different direction.
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