The vast form of the spreading factory, the roofs and gardens
of the village, the Tudor chimneys of the house of Trafford,
the spire of the gothic church, with the sparkling river and
the sylvan hack-ground, came rather suddenly on the sight of
Egremont. They were indeed in the pretty village-street
before he was aware he was about to enter it. Some beautiful
children rushed out of a cottage and flew to Sybil, crying
out, "the queen, the queen;" one clinging to her dress,
another seizing her arm, and a third, too small to struggle,
pouting out its lips to be embraced.
"My subjects," said Sybil laughing, as she greeted them all;
and then they ran away to announce to others that their queen
had arrived.
Others came: beautiful and young. As Sybil and Egremont
walked along, the race too tender for labour, seemed to spring
out of every cottage to greet "their queen." Her visits had
been very rare of late, but they were never forgotten; they
formed epochs in the village annals of the children, some of
whom knew only by tradition the golden age when Sybil Gerard
lived at the great house, and daily glanced like a spirit
among their homes, smiling and met with smiles, blessing and
ever blessed.
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