



Produced by David Garcia, Tiffany Vergon, Juliet Sutherland,
Charles Franks, and the Online Distributed Proofreaders Team











BROUGHT HOME.

BY

HESBA STRETTON.







CONTENTS.


    CHAPTER I.  UPTON RECTORY

   CHAPTER II.  ANN HOLLAND

  CHAPTER III.  WHAT WAS HER DUTY?

   CHAPTER IV.  A BABY'S GRAVE

    CHAPTER V.  TOWN'S TALK

   CHAPTER VI.  THE RECTOR'S RETURN

  CHAPTER VII.  WORSE THAN DEAD

 CHAPTER VIII.  HUSBAND AND WIFE

   CHAPTER IX.  SAD DAYS

    CHAPTER X.  A SIN AND A SHAME

   CHAPTER XI.  LOST

  CHAPTER XII.  A COLONIAL CURACY

 CHAPTER XIII.  SELF-SACRIFICE

  CHAPTER XIV.  FAREWELLS

   CHAPTER XV.  IN DESPAIR

  CHAPTER XVI.  A LONG VOYAGE

 CHAPTER XVII.  ALMOST SHIPWRECKED

CHAPTER XVIII.  SAVED








CHAPTER I.

UPTON RECTORY


So quiet is the small market town of Upton, that it is difficult to
believe in the stir and din of London, which is little more than an
hour's journey from it. It is the terminus of the single line of rails
branching off from the main line eight miles away, and along it three
trains only travel each way daily. The sleepy streets have old-fashioned
houses straggling along each side, with trees growing amongst them; and
here and there, down the roads leading into the the country, which are
half street, half lane, green plots of daisied grass are still to be
found, where there were once open fields that have left a little legacy
to the birds and children of coming generations. Half the houses are
still largely built of wood from the forest of olden times that has now
disappeared; and ancient bow-windows jut out over the side causeways.
Some of the old exclusive mansions continue to boast in a breastwork of
stone pillars linked together by chains of iron, intended as a defence
against impertinent intruders, but more often serving as safe
swinging-places for the young children sent to play in the streets.
Perhaps of all times of the year the little town looks its best on a
sunny autumn morning, with its fine film of mist, when the chestnut
leaves are golden, and slender threads of gossamer are floating in the
air, and heavy dews, white as the hoar-frost, glisten in the sunshine.
But at any season Upton seems a tranquil, peaceful, out-of-the-world
spot, having no connection with busier and more wretched places.

There were not many real gentry, as the townsfolk called them, living
near. A few retired Londoners, weary of the great city, and finding
rents and living cheaper at Upton, had settled in trim villas, built
beyond the boundaries of the town. But for the most part the population
consisted of substantial trades-people and professional men, whose
families had been represented there for several generations. As usual
the society was broken up into very small cliques; no one household
feeling itself exactly on the same social equality as another; even as
far down as the laundresses and charwomen, who could tell whose husband
or son had been before the justices, and which families had escaped that
disgrace. The nearest approach to that equality and fraternity of which
we all hear so much and see so little, was unfortunately to be found in
the bar-parlor and billiard-room of the Upton Arms; but even this was
lost as soon as the threshold was recrossed, and the boon-companions of
the interior breathed the air of the outer world. There were several
religious sects of considerable strength, and of very decided
antagonistic views; any one of whose members was always ready to give
the reason of the special creed that was in him. So, what with a variety
of domestic circumstances, and a diversity of religious opinions, it is
not to be wondered at that the society of Upton was broken up into very
small circles indeed.

There was one point, however, on which all the townspeople were united.
There could be no doubt whatever as to the beauty of the old Norman
church, lying just beyond the eastern boundary of the town; not mingling
with its business, but standing in a solemn quiet of its own, as if to
guard the repose of the sleepers under its shadow. The churchyard too,
was beautiful, with its grand and dusky old yew-trees, spreading their
broad sweeping branches like cedars, and with many a bright colored
flower-bed lying amongst the dark green of the graves. The townspeople
loved to stroll down to it in the twilight, with half-stirred idle
thoughts of better things soothing away the worries and cares of the
day. A narrow meadow of glebe-land separated the churchyard from the
Rectory garden, a bank