By meadow gates and hedges fragrant with wild roses;
and by thatched-roof cottages whose inmates humbly bowed before him as
a man both good and wise; the worthy Pecksniff walked in tranquil
meditation. The bee passed onward, humming of the work he had to do;
the idle gnats for ever going round and round in one contracting and
expanding ring, yet always going on as fast as he, danced merrily before
him; the colour of the long grass came and went, as if the light clouds
made it timid as they floated through the distant air. The birds,
so many Pecksniff consciences, sang gayly upon every branch; and Mr
Pecksniff paid HIS homage to the day by ruminating on his projects as he
walked along.
Chancing to trip, in his abstraction, over the spreading root of an old
tree, he raised his pious eyes to take a survey of the ground before
him. It startled him to see the embodied image of his thoughts not far
ahead. Mary herself. And alone.
At first Mr Pecksniff stopped as if with the intention of avoiding
her; but his next impulse was to advance, which he did at a brisk pace;
caroling as he went so sweetly and with so much innocence that he only
wanted feathers and wings to be a bird.
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