long gravelled walk
by the hall door turns into a handsome walled kitchen garden, where
apple and pear trees abound, together with a quarter of an acre of
strawberry beds, currant, gooseberry, and raspberry bushes in plenty.
From the library window can be seen the flower garden and shrubbery and
a large variety of rose trees. Close by is her own special plot where
she delighted to work with her own little implements, spade, trowel,
hoe, and rake, planting her seeds, pricking her seedlings, pruning,
grafting, and watching with deepest eagerness to see them grow. In
spring-time her interest was alike divided between the opening buds of
her daffodils and the breaking of the eggs of the first little chickens
in the fine poultry yard, in the management of which she was so
successful. But among all these multifarious and healthy outdoor
occupations in which she delighted, Mrs. Hungerford invariably secured
three hours daily for her literary pursuits, when everything was done
with such method and order, the writing included, that there was little
wonder that she got through so much.

Her own writing-room bears the stamp of her taste and her love of
study, where the big log-fire burned in the huge grate, and lighted up
a splendid old oak cabinet that reaches from floor to ceiling, which,
together with four other bookcases, are literally crammed to
overflowing, while the picturesque is not wanting, as the many
paintings, old china, ferns, plants and winter flowers can testify.

On the great knee-hole writing table lies the now silent pen where last
she used it, with each big or little bundle of MSS. methodically
labelled, and a long list of engagements for work, extending into
future years, now, alas! destined to remain unfulfilled!

With so active a brain she was a bad sleeper, and always planned out
her best schemes during the night, and wrote them out in the morning
without difficulty. Driving, too, had a curious effect upon her; the
action of the air seemed to stimulate her, and she disliked talking, or
being talked to, when driving. She loved to think and to watch the
lovely variations of the world around her, and would often come home
filled with fresh ideas, scenes, and conversations, which she used to
note down without even waiting to throw off her furs. If questioned how
she went to work about a plot she would reply, with a reproachful
little laugh, 'I never have a plot really, not the _bona fide_ plot one
looks for