the fond gay birds are warbling their tenderest strains. "Along the grass sweet airs are blown," and all the myriad flowers, the "little wildings" of the forest, "earth's cultureless buds," are expanding and glowing, and exhaling the perfumed life that their mother, Nature, has given them.
Chetwoode is looking its best and brightest, and Sir Guy might well be proud of his possessions; but no thought of them enters his mind just now, which is filled to overflowing with the image of this petulant, pretty, saucy, lovable ward, that fate has thrown into his path.
"Yes, it is a lovely place!" says Lilian, after a pause spent in admiration. She has been looking around her, and has fallen into honest though silent raptures over all the undulating parks and uplands that stretch before her, far as the eye can see. "Lovely!—So," with a sigh, "was my old home."
"Yes. I think quite as lovely as this."
"What!" turning to him with a start, while the rich, warm, eager flush of youth springs to her cheeks and mantles there, "you have been there? You have seen the Park?"
"Yes, very often, though not for years past. I spent many a day there when I was younger. I thought you knew it."
"No, indeed. It makes me glad to think some one here can remember its beauties with me. But you cannot know it all as I do: you never saw my own particular bit of wood?"—with earnest questioning, as though seeking to deny the hope that strongly exists. "It lies behind the orchard, and one can get to it by passing through a little gate in the wall, that leads into the very centre of it. There at first, in the heart of the trees one sees a tangled mass with giant branches overhanging it, and straggling blackberry bushes protecting it with their angry arms, and just inside, the coolest, greenest, freshest bit of grass in all the world,—my fairy nook I used to call it. But you—of course you never saw it."
"It has a huge horse-chestnut at its head, and a silver fir at its feet."
"Yes,—yes!"
"I know it well," says Chetwoode, smiling at her eagerness. "It was your mother's favorite spot. You know she and my mother were fast friends, and she was very fond of me. When first she was married, before you were born, I was constantly at the Park, and afterward too. She used to read in the spot you name, and I—I was a delicate little fellow at that time, obliged to lie a good deal, and I used to read there beside her with my head in her lap, by the hour together."