The morning of the confirmation was come. It was mid-May time, bringing
with it weather not, perhaps, quite so blooming as that assumed to be
natural to the month by the joyous poets of three hundred years ago; but
a very tolerable, well-wearing May, that the average rustic would
willingly have compounded for in lieu of Mays occasionally fairer, but
usually more foul.

Among the larger shrubs and flowers which composed the outworks of the
Welland gardens, the lilac, the laburnum, and the guelder-rose hung out
their respective colours of purple, yellow, and white; whilst within
these, belted round from every disturbing gale, rose the columbine, the
peony, the larkspur, and the Solomon's seal. The animate things that
moved amid this scene of colour were plodding bees, gadding butterflies,
and numerous sauntering young feminine candidates for the impending
confirmation, who, having gaily bedecked themselves for the ceremony,
were enjoying their own appearance by walking about in twos and threes
till it was time to start.

Swithin St. Cleeve, whose preparations were somewhat simpler than those
of the village belles, waited till his grandmother and Hannah had set
out, and then, locking the door, followed towards the distant church.

On reaching the churchyard gate he met Mr. Torkingham, who shook hands with
him in the manner of a man with several irons in the fire, and telling
Swithin where to sit, disappeared to hunt up some candidates who had not
yet made themselves visible.