‘You are right, my good woman,’ says Mrs. Prior; ‘I really don’t think I was ever so anxious to make the acquaintance of anyone before.... Round that corner, you say? Thank you. I shall certainly tell my nephew what a trustworthy guardian you make.’
She parts with Mrs. Denis with a little gracious bow, and a sudden swift change of countenance that strikes that worthy woman at the time—but unfortunately works out a little late. Stepping quickly in the direction indicated, Mrs. Prior turns the corner and goes along the southern border of the pretty cottage until she reaches a small iron gate that leads to the garden proper.
In here, soft perfumes meet one in the air, and delicate tints delight the eye. The little walks run here and there, the grasses grow, and from the flowering shrubs sweet trills are heard, sounds beautiful, and
‘Not sooner heard
Than answered, doubled, trebled more,
Voice of an Eden in the bird,
Renewing with his pipe of four
The sob; a troubled Eden, rich
In throb of heart.’
The grandeur of the dying autumn strikes through all; for over there, as a background to the still brilliant flowers, are fading yellows, and sad reds, and leaves russet-brown, more lovely now, perhaps, than when a life dwelt in them.