Passing the old rectory, and still older church, with its reverend screen of trees, and slowly ascending a hill side, from whence he obtained enchanting peeps of the spire and college of Harrow, he reached the cluster of well-built houses which constitute the village of Neasdon. At night she would turn it in her fingers like a rosary bead. Without turning or looking in his direction she leaned forwards, her head supported upon her fingers, her elbows upon her knees. The doors of several of the wards were thrown open for these parties, and as Jack passed, he could not help glancing at the wretched inmates.
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