f the past; it is a poem in wood and stone.
Ashbourne would be very well for a hunting-box for anyone who had three
or four other places, as my father has; but when my time comes, and I
have only Ashbourne, I'm afraid I shall hate it."

"But you will have a choice of places by-and-by," said the Duchess
consolingly "You will have Briarwood."

"Briarwood is a degree uglier than Ashbourne," sighed Lady Mabel,
leaning back in the carriage, wrapped to the chin in Russian sable, the
image of discontent.

There are moments in every life, as in Solomon's, when all seems
vanity. Lady Mabel Ashbourne's life had been cloudless--a continual
summer, an unchangeable Italian sky; and yet there were times when she
was weary of it, when some voice within her murmured, "This is not
enough." She was pretty, she was graceful, accomplished, gifted with a
self-confidence that generally passed for wit; all the blood in her
veins was the bluest of the blue, everybody bowed down to her, more or
less, and paid her homage; the man she liked best in the world, and had
so preferred from her childhood, was to be her husband; nobody had ever
contradicted her, or hinted that she was less than perfect; and yet
that mysterious and rebellious voice sometimes repeated, "It is not
enough." She was like the woman in the German fairy tale, who,
beginning as the wife of a half-starved fisherman, came, by fairy
power, to be king, and then emperor, and then pope: and still was not
contented, but languished for something more, aye, even to have the
ordering of the sun and moon.

The rebellious voice expostulated loudly this winter afternoon, as Lady
Mabel's languid eyes scanned the dark shining rhododendron bushes,
rising bank above bank, a veritable jungle, backed by tall beeches and
towerlike Douglas firs. A blackbird was whistling joyously amongst the
greenery, and a robin was singing on the other side of the drive. The
sunlit sky was soft and pearly. It was one of those mild winters in
which Christmas steals unawares upon the footprints of a lovely autumn.
The legendary oak was doubtless in full bud at Cadenham, like its
miraculous brother, the Glastonbury thorn.

"I don't think any of my father's places can compare with this," Lady
Mabel said irritably.

She would not have minded the beauty of the grounds so much had they
been the heritage of any other heiress than Violet Tempest.

The old hall was full of people and voices when the Duchess and her