She opened a glass door, through which came a green and sunny glimpse of a pleasant-looking garden beyond. Without being small, it had the look of a bower, and a very charming bower it was, fragrant and wild. In the centre of a grass-plat rose an old sun-dial of grey stone, with many a green mossy tint. Around wound a circular path, between which and the wall extended a broad space filled with lilac-trees, laburnums, thickets of gorse and broom, and where, though half wild and neglected, also grew, according to their season, cool blue hyacinths, yellow crocuses with their glowing hearts, gay daffodils, pale primroses, snowdrops, shy hare- bells, fair lilies of the valley, tall foxgloves of many a rich dark hue, summer roses laden with perfume, stately holly-hocks, bright China- asters, and bending chrysanthemums—"a wilderness of sweets." The wall itself, when it could be seen, was not without some charm and verdure. It was old and crumbling, but bristling with bright snap-dragons, yellow with stonecrop above, and green below with dark ivy that trailed and crept along the ground. From a few rusty nails hung, torn and wild, banners of tangled honeysuckle and jasmine, haunted by the bees of a neighbouring hive. Two tall and noble poplars, growing on either side the wooden door by which Cornelius and I had entered, cast their narrow line of waving shadow over the whole place, which they filled with a low rustling murmur. The lane behind was silent; beyond it, and everywhere around, extended gardens, wide or small, where quiet dwellings rose in the shade and shelter of embowering trees; still further on, spread a rising horizon, bounded by lines of low hills, where grey clouds lay lazily sleeping all the day long.
On this autumn morning, Miss O'Reilly's garden was little more than warm, green, and sunny. The poplars had strewn it with sere and yellow leaves, and of the flowers none remained save a few late roses, China-asters, and chrysanthemums. I walked around it, then sat down on the flag at the foot of the sun-dial, and amused myself with looking at the house.
It was one of those low-roofed, red-tiled, and antiquated abodes, which can still be seen on the outskirts of London, daily removed, it is true, to make room for the modern cottage and villa. It stood between a quiet street and a lonely lane, a plain brick building, with many-paned windows, half hid by clustering ivy, which shadowed its projecting porch, and gave it a gloom both soft and deep. A screen of ivy sloping down to the garden-wall partly separated it from a larger house, to which, in point of fact, it belonged; both had originally formed one abode, but, for the purpose of letting, had thus been subdivided by Miss O'Reilly, whose property they had recently become. On either side, the double building was sheltered by young trees. It looked secluded, lone, and ancient: an abode where generations had lived and loved.
From contemplating it, I turned to watching a spider's web, one of my favourite occupations in our garden at Rock Cottage.
"Well!" said the frank voice of Miss O'Reilly.
I looked up; the sun fell full on the house, and on the three worn stone steps that led down to the garden, but she stood above them, beneath the ivied porch, where she looked fresh and cool, like a bright flower in the shade. She gazed at me with her head a little pensively inclined towards her right shoulder; then said gently—
"Why do you sit, instead of running about?"
"It tires me so."
"Poor little thing! but you must move. Come in; go about the house; walk up and down stairs; open the cupboards, look, do something."
"Yes, Ma'am," I replied, astonished however at her singular behests.