intense admiration at a copy of one of Raphael’s best works. “Who was the artist?”
“I made the copies myself,” was his reply; an answer which brought Hilary’s eyes on him with a look of reverence and admiration.
The coffee was soon brought in, most excellent of its kind; indeed, whatever they saw, belonging to Mr. Huyton, which could be supposed finished, appeared as perfect as possible. Although it was evident that as yet hardly any thing was in its place, and the whole house had the air of having been so long neglected, that Hilary could not wonder that its progress towards order and classification had gone on slowly.
“I shall get on by degrees,” said he, in answer to some observation of hers relative to the labor before him. “By-and-by, when the library has been new floored and cleaned, we will have these carved book-frames put up, of which that is a specimen. But I like to superintend the whole. It doubles the value of a place to arrange it all oneself: unless one had the happiness of falling in with some second mind and fancy, which could sympathize with and enter into one’s own peculiarities and wishes.”
“And do you not find the noise and bustle of workmen disagreeable, Mr. Huyton?” asked Hilary.
“I do not mind it; and when I am tired I go out in the forest, or stroll about, and form plans for the ground and gardens.”
“There used to be a famous garden here always,” observed Maurice; “many a time have I bought peaches and nectarines at the Lodge gates in former years.”
“These windows look up that beautiful avenue, I see,” said Hilary; “what magnificent timber you have about here.”
“Yes, and so quaintly planted,” replied he; “one wonders at the taste. Straight rows seem the prevailing idea. Rows of oaks, rows of cedars, rows of larch trees, varied by quadrangles of enormous yews, or of double rows of limes, which must be delicious in summer. Miss Duncan, I do not wish to hurry you away, but whenever you please, the carriage is at your service.”
Hilary rose to prepare for her departure. The children cast