AFTER TEN YEARS.
It was a golden day in the golden month of October, when Philip Tremain stepped down from the railway train, and stood, a solitary traveller, upon the platform of the open station at Beetons, high up among the rolling "white hills" of New Hampshire.
An open waggon, drawn by four sturdy mountain ponies, was in waiting beside the rustic platform, and into this he sprang; the driver cracked his long whip, accompanying it by a shrill whistle, and off the willing little creatures started.
Up the steep winding roads and down again they went at a swift, even gallop, while Mr. Tremain, with a sudden recollection of Mrs. Newbold's park ponies and irreproachable basket phaeton, laughed aloud at the dissimilarity between them and his present primitive conveyance, and at the contrast of the solemn hills, and long wooded slopes, with the suburban and ornamental prettiness that environed the Folly.
All before him stretched the grand White Mountain range, from Jefferson's and Madison's verdure-tipped sides, to Washington's rocky cliffs and snow-crowned peak. On every side the richest glory prevailed; scarlet and crimson of the sugar maple, gold and amber of beech and birch, russet brown of oak, and sombre green of hemlock. A keen pine-scented breeze swept past him, swaying the tall golden-rod and blue asters, and shaking out the bitter-sweet perfume from the purple gentian where it grew far up the mountain side.
The road wound on, up and up, growing steeper and steeper with each mile, fringed on either side by tall ferns, grasses, and brown bracken, and starred with late yellow-and-white ox-eyed daisies. To his right the steep mountains rose far above his head, to his left the beautiful "wild Ammonoouc" leapt from stone to stone, and dashed into rivulets against the lichen-covered boulders, breaking over them in creamy foam.
Once Philip bade his charioteer stop, and climbing down over the high-sided vehicle, he gathered a nosegay of the wild, white daisies, adding a maple and beech leaf as a set-off to the pure petals. Then, with a smile upon his lips, he took his place beside the taciturn Jehu, and on they went again, with the same long swinging gallop.
As the last roseate glow of sunshine was lighting up the western heavens, and the great Phœbus was sinking to rest in the arms of grey and violet clouds, they came upon a long low house, built far out on a projecting spur of rock, which seemed to hang 'twixt earth and sky, and looked as if a stiff north-easter would make short work of its walls and foundations. This house was painted a dull venetian red, and was covered with creepers and wild vines, and brilliant with rows of scarlet geraniums marking each casement.
It glowed like some bird of tropical plumage, alighted suddenly upon the cooler neutral tints of this northern land.
And this was the home of Patricia Hildreth.