It had once been a monastery. It was covered with
ivy, which grew thick and hungry upon it, and it was called the
Cloistered House. The last of the three was of wood, and of no great
size--a severely plain but dignified structure, looking like some
council-hall of a past era. Its heavy oak doors and windows with diamond
panes, and its air of order, cleanliness and serenity, gave it a
commanding influence in the picture. It was the key to the history of the
village--a Quaker Meeting-house.
Involuntarily the village had built itself in such a way that it made a
wide avenue from the common at one end to the Meeting-house on the
gorse-grown upland at the other. With a demure resistance to the will of
its makers the village had made itself decorative. The people were
unconscious of any attractiveness in themselves or in their village.
There were, however, a few who felt the beauty stirring around them.
These few, for their knowledge and for the pleasure which it brought,
paid the accustomed price. The records of their lives were the only
notable history of the place since the days when their forefathers
suffered for the faith.
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