He found when he did so a wooded hillside with a gurgling streamlet at its foot. A rustic narrow bridge spanned the rivulet, and ferns grew on either side of it in great luxuriance. It was a pretty shady spot, with a winding dell on one side of the little bridge. Along this John Temple had proceeded a few yards when he caught a glimpse of something white beneath one of the trees. He looked again and saw it was a girl sitting on a camp-stool reading. He drew nearer; the girl heard his approaching footsteps, even on the mossy turf. She looked up. It was the Mayflower, and John Temple felt he had not had his walk in vain!
He stopped when he reached her, and took off his cloth traveling-cap.
“Forgive me addressing you, Miss Churchill,” he said, smilingly; “but I have lost my way.”
The Mayflower smiled, too.
“You are a long way from the Hall,” she said.
“I wanted a good walk, and now will you tell me where I am?”
“This place is called Fern Dene, and the wood beyond, up the hill there, is called Fern Wood. It is famous for its ferns, and there are some very rare kinds growing about here, and there are also some rare kinds of moths, but I never can bear to catch them.”
“No, it’s better to let them have their lives in peace.”
“Yes, and they look so beautiful fluttering about. But I admit I steal the ferns. This is part of the squire’s property, so you must not tell him.”
“You would doubtless be arrested as a poacher.”