w the house it was spanned by a rude
stone bridge, from which a hedged lane led off on the other side. All
along the fences or hedges which enclosed the fields grew also
beautiful old trees; the whole landscape was decked with wood growth,
though the hills had little or none. All the more the sweet contrast;
the rare harmony; the beautiful mingling of soft cultivation with what
was wild and picturesque and barren. And the river gurgled on, with a
fresh sound that told of its activity; and a very large herd of cows
spotted the green turf in some of the meadows on the other side of the
stream.

"I never saw any place so lovely," exclaimed Eleanor; "never!"

"This is my favourite walking place in winter," said Mrs. Caxton; "when
I want to walk under shelter, or not to go far from home."

"How charming that garden must be when the spring comes!"

"Are you fond of gardening?" said Mrs. Caxton.

A talk upon the subject followed, in which Eleanor perceived with some
increase of respect that her aunt was no ignoramus; nay, that she was
familiar with delicacies both in the practice and the subjects of
horticulture that were not well known to Eleanor, in spite of her
advantages of the Lodge and Rythdale conservatories and gardens both
together. In the course of this talk, Eleanor noticed anew all the
indications that had pleased her last night; the calm good sense and
self-possession; the quiet dignity; the decision; the kindness. And
perhaps Mrs. Caxton too made her observations. But this was the
mistress of the cheese-farm!

A pause fell in their talk at length; probably both had matter for
reflection.

"Have you settled that question, Eleanor?" said her aunt meaningly.

"That question?--O no, aunt Caxton! It is all confusion; and it is all
confused with another question."

There was more than talk in this evidently, for Eleanor's face had all
darkened. Mrs. Caxton answered calmly,

"My dear, the first thing I would do, would be to separate them."

"Aunty, they are like two wrestlers; I cannot seem to separate them. If
I think of the one, I get hold of he other; and if I take up the other,
I am obliged to think of the one; and my mind is the fighting ground."

"Then the two questions are in reality one?"

"No, aunt Caxton--they are not. Only they both press for attention at
once."

"Which is the most important?"

"This one--about which you asked me," Eleanor said, drooping her head a
little.

"Then decide t