s scythe, or the gardener
trailing a roller. Sooth to say, even these peaceful noises had been
very rare for a long time previous to the opening of this tale: the
garden which occupied the old place of arms had fallen into neglect;
the ivy, which might have been ornamental to the ruined walls and
outworks, stifled the trees and shrubs in its oppressive embrace; the
flowers struggled hard for life amidst a host of weeds; the grass of
the lawn, unmown since the summer, when it was cut for hay, was rusty
and patchy; the gravel walks were green and mouldy. One little plot of
ground, however, was an oasis in the general desert: it occupied an
angle of the castle, having a southern aspect, and was screened from
the sea-breezes by the wall along the cliff: here trim flower-beds
were cut in a small expanse of turf, and displayed, even at this
advanced season, not a few gems of horticulture.

And two or three windows, looking from the first floor on this still
blooming garden, presented no less striking a contrast to the rest of
the castle, than the garden itself afforded to the remainder of the
great court. Their florid decorations were sharp and fresh; their
glass was bright and clear; and white curtains within might temper the
radiance of the mid-day sun. But, everywhere else, the progress of
decay was manifest: the Gothic tracery was crumbling away; panes were
frequently wanting in the casements; and when they were perfect, the
winter spray and summer dust had rendered them nearly opaque. Weeds
grew between the stones and on the ledges of the walls; and long
creeping-plants hung from the battlements, and waved mournfully in the
wind. Desolation reigned paramount over Trevethlan Castle.

Nor did the interior of the building belie its external aspect. The
state bed-chamber was a sample of all the rest. In many of the rooms
the dust had been undisturbed for nearly thirty years. But two were
exceptions to the general neglect: one, the gallery to which Mr.
Trevethlan referred, where hung the portraits of the family,
generation after generation, from the days of Holbein to those of
Reynolds. This was the favourite walk of Mrs. Griffith, the wife of
the steward, whose office had been hereditary in his family almost
from the earliest of those portraits. Mrs. Griffith used to spend much
of her spare time in the gallery, walking to and fro with a long
flapper of feathers in her hand, gently and reverentially brushing the
dust from t