1901. Begins: Christmas day, good reader. Morning service in the
village church was over, and old Gregory Brough, his wife, and his
callow brood were trooping over the snow-covered fields of Poyntz
Park on their way home to dinner. Squire Brough was a jolly tubby
little fellow, carrying his sixty years as lightly as a babe
astride of a rocking-horse carries cocked hat and tin sword. His
beaming red face and white hair gave him a character that his heart
did not belie. As good a squire as ever farmed English acres and
proved friend-in-need to the people on his estate was honest old
Gregory; and though his income had steadily declined as his olive
branches multiplied round about his table he kept a stout heart to
the world and faced the future with as breezy a courage as ever Sir
Geoffrey Peveril bore into conflict against kennel-blooded,
clip-eared, cuckoldy Roundheads. Due to the age and scarcity of the
original we reproduced, some pages may be spotty or faded.
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