ed with crewel-work more than two hundred years
old, yet with colors as fresh as on the day that Lady Zouch and her
maidens set in the stitches. Then there is the great drawing-room, with
its precious Italian marble chimney-piece, more brass dogs, more
tapestry, more recessed windows. Then the library, full of priceless
books, to which the present learned owner is constantly adding new
volumes. The mere ceilings are a study in themselves, for they are
covered with mouldings and traceries and hanging bosses of marvellous
workmanship of the time of Inigo Jones--designed, some say, by him, for
he used to stay at Eversley, hard by, with a friend and fellow-pupil of
Sir Christopher Wren. Then comes the long gallery, running the whole
width of the building, stored with curiosities, where we used to run
races and play hide-and-seek with the children of the house in bygone
days, and tremble when evening came on lest some bogie from his
lurking-place should spring out upon us. The bedrooms are panelled with
oak painted white, with splendid fireplaces and carved mantelpieces that
reach the ceiling.

And besides all these there are enchanting little rooms reached by
unexpected staircases, by secret doors in the wall, by dark passages
where one hears the rustle of ghostly brocade dresses. Those are the
most lovable rooms, for, once safely in them, one is at home and warm,
while in the state rooms one feels, as the dear old squire who died here
thirty years ago said, "like a pea in a drum."

Down from the house slopes the park, with its green glades, its
heather-covered knolls, its huge oaks, its delicate silver
birches--above all, its matchless Scotch firs, which James I. planted
here, as he did in many places in England, to remind himself of the land
of his birth. The hardy northern trees took kindly to their new home,
and they have seeded themselves and spread far and wide over vast tracts
of country. But nowhere south of Tweed are finer specimens to be found
than in this old Hampshire park. Three great avenues of them run round a
triangle half a mile across, and outside the shade of their black
branches the purple heather and waving bracken form a carpet fit for
elves and fairies.

From the western front of the house a double avenue of gigantic elms
leads down to the river that gleams in silver lines beneath the bridge,
and ends where the moors begin on the opposite hill a mile away. Up this
avenue in olden days the deer were