“Thank you, my dear George; how good you are,” said the Countess.
“Not half good enough to have such a dear, dear wife as you, Amy,” said the loving old lord. “And now what is it?”
“The Barton Hall Estate,” said Amy, triumphantly. “The house where Phœbe was born, where she lived, and which was really her home, the fields in which she walked, the rocks and trees which her husband loved to paint, the place where Phœbe and your Amy lived and loved together.”
“Good, good!” said the Earl.
“You consent?” asked Amy, joyfully.
“Certainly,” said his lordship, “with all the pleasure in life; you never doubted it. Besides, the estate is your own, Amy.”
“My dear love,” said the Countess, a warm affectionate smile lighting up her beautiful face; but her countenance fell immediately, as Lionel Hammerton emerged from a thicket close by.
“Oh! Lionel, going for a ramble?” said the Earl.
“Yes,” said Lionel, raising his hat to the Countess, “the weather is so tempting, and my time down here so short.”
“Indeed; when do you leave us then?” asked the Earl.