imed before him. "Your name is
Gripper, is it? I consider you, Mrs. Gripper, the most valuable person
in the house. For this reason, that nobody in the house eats a heartier
dinner every day than I do. Directions? Oh, no; I've no directions to
give. I leave all that to you. Lots of strong soup, and joints done
with the gravy in them--there's my notion of good feeding, in two
words. Steady! Here's somebody else. Oh, to be sure--the butler! Another
valuable person. We'll go right through all the wine in the cellar,
Mr. Butler; and if I can't give you a sound opinion after that,
we'll persevere boldly, and go right through it again. Talking of
wine--halloo! here are more of them coming up stairs. There! there!
don't trouble yourselves. You've all got capital characters, and you
shall all stop here along with me. What was I saying just now? Something
about wine; so it was. I'll tell you what, Mr. Butler, it isn't every
day that a new master comes to Thorpe Ambrose; and it's my wish that we
should all start together on the best possible terms. Let the servants
have a grand jollification downstairs to celebrate my arrival, and
give them what they like to drink my health in. It's a poor heart, Mrs.
Gripper, that never rejoices, isn't it? No; I won't look at the cellar
now: I want to go out, and get a breath of fresh air before breakfast.
Where's Richard? I say, have I got a garden here? Which side of the
house is it! That side, eh? You needn't show me round. I'll go alone,
Richard, and lose myself, if I can, in my own property."

With those words Allan descended the terrace steps in front of the
house, whistling cheerfully. He had met the serious responsibility of
settling his domestic establishment to his own entire satisfaction.
"People talk of the difficulty of managing their servants," thought
Allan. "What on earth do they mean? I don't see any difficulty at all."
He opened an ornamental gate leading out of the drive at the side of the
house, and, following the footman's directions, entered the shrubbery
that sheltered the Thorpe Ambrose gardens. "Nice shady sort of place
for a cigar," said Allan, as he sauntered along with his hands in his
pockets "I wish I could beat it into my head that it really belongs to
_me_."

The shrubbery opened on the broad expanse of a flower garden, flooded
bright in its summer glory by the light of the morning sun.

On one side, an archway, broken through, a wall, led into the fruit
garden