Even the old-fashioned, low-roofed house, with its many gables and the heron carved in stone over the porch, was laughing in the sunshine; and on the well-kept lawn was a group, on which the eye of an artist might have loved to linger.
A sweet and gracious mother was seated on a low garden bench with a baby on her knee, while on either side stood two children—twin boys—who were the joy and pride of her heart.
The little sister of ten months old had come to put the last jewel in the crown of Griselda Travers's happy wifehood and motherhood.
The place where she sat was under the shadow of a row of tall whispering poplars, which made the pleasant "sound as of falling showers," as the summer breeze stirred the leaves. At the back of the house was a plantation of fir-trees, where the turtle-doves were cooing, and the murmur as of "far seas" in the dark topmost branches made a low undertone of melody.
In the old-fashioned garden, or pleasaunce to the right of the house, bees were humming at their work, and gay butterflies dancing over the lavender-bushes and large trees of York and Lancaster roses, which made the air sweet with their fragrance.
A wide gravel-path divided the pleasaunce, and there a pair of happy lovers were pacing, forgetful of everything but their own happiness.
Presently one of Griselda's boys left her side, and ran across the grass to a little gate which led from a copse, and bounded the lawn on that side.
"Father!" the boy exclaimed; and his brother followed him, echoing the joyful cry.
Griselda also rose, and went across the lawn with the same graceful movement which had distinguished her in the Bath assemblies of old.
"I hope the gig came to meet the coach, dear husband?" she said. "It must have been a hot walk from Louth."