town there is a small
country place of singular beauty. The house stands on the brow of a
green hill, the front looking over a magnificent neighbouring park,
varied with grove, and lake, and rivulet. At the back is a trimly kept
garden of tufts of flowers, like enormous bouquets thrown on the green
velvet sward, with here and there a sombre cypress or cedar in
pleasant contrast. A succession of small terraces, with steep grassy
steps, leads down to a rapid brook that forms a little waterfall
below. Half an arch of a bridge, ruined, no one knows how, many years
ago, now covered with thick clustering ivy, projects over the stream.
Beyond, lie rich undulating pastoral lands, where cattle and sheep are
grazing peacefully; on either side of the garden thick woods of beech
and sycamore reach from the brook up to the house, shutting in this
lonely spot with their dark green wall. The dwelling was originally
Elizabethan, but had been so often added to or diminished, that it
would be hard to say now what it is; but somehow the confusion of
gables and excrescences have altogether a very picturesque effect, and
luxuriant clematis and ivy conceal the architectural irregularities,
or at least divert the eye from their observation. At the entrance to
the house from the garden there is a porch, up a short flight of gray
stone steps; its sides are of trellis-work, covered with flowering
creepers.

One sunny afternoon towards the end of June, in the year mentioned
above, a fresh breeze rustled through the leaves, shook the rich
clusters of fragrant roses that hung about the porch, and fanned the
cheek of a young girl standing on the steps, who looked as fair and
innocent as the flowers themselves. She was her mother's only child,
and had seen but eighteen years. Her father had been a gallant sailor,
knighted for his conduct in one action, and slain in the next. Her
mother, Lady Waring, was thus left widowed while yet young; but her
loved husband's memory, and the care of her little daughter Kate,
proved enough of earthly interests for her, and she remained single
ever afterwards. Sir William Waring had possessed a considerable
share, as sleeping partner, in an old-established banking-house that
bore the name of his family, as well as the residence I have tried to
describe, so that his widow and child were left in very affluent
circumstances. He was a first cousin of old Mr Meynell, the Yorkshire
squire.

Lady Waring was seated on a