to the gateway of a
handsome park, whose mansion was faintly seen in the distance. Hurrying
towards him, down the avenue of limes, was a strange figure. It was that
of a man of middle age; clad in Quaker garb, yet with an extravagance
of cut and detail which seemed antiquated even for England. He had
evidently seen the young man approaching, and his face was beaming with
welcome. If Paul had doubted that it was his uncle, the first words he
spoke would have reassured him.

"Welcome to Hawthorn Hall," said the figure, grasping his hand heartily,
"but thee will excuse me if I do not tarry with thee long at present,
for I am hastening, even now, with some nourishing and sustaining food
for Giles Hayward, a farm laborer." He pointed to a package he was
carrying. "But thee will find thy cousins Jane and Dorcas Bunker taking
tea in the summer-house. Go to them! Nay--positively--I may not linger,
but will return to thee quickly." And, to Paul's astonishment, he
trotted away on his sturdy, respectable legs, still beaming and carrying
his package in his hand.

"Well, I'll be dog-goned! but the old man ain't going to be left, you
bet!" he ejaculated, suddenly remembering his dialect. "He'll get there,
whether school keeps or not!" Then, reflecting that no one heard him, he
added simply, "He certainly was not over civil towards the nephew he
has never seen before. And those girls--whom I don't know! How very
awkward!"

Nevertheless, he continued his way up the avenue towards the mansion.
The park was beautifully kept. Remembering the native wildness and
virgin seclusion of the Western forest, he could not help contrasting it
with the conservative gardening of this pretty woodland, every rood
of which had been patrolled by keepers and rangers, and preserved and
fostered hundreds of years before he was born, until warmed for human
occupancy. At times the avenue was crossed by grass drives, where
the original woodland had been displaced, not by the exigency of a
"clearing" for tillage, as in his own West, but for the leisurely
pleasure of the owner. Then, a few hundred yards from the house
itself,--a quaint Jacobean mansion,--he came to an open space where the
sylvan landscape had yielded to floral cultivation, and so fell upon a
charming summer-house, or arbor, embowered with roses. It must have
been the one of which his uncle had spoken, for there, to his wondering
admiration, sat two little maids before a rustic table, drinking