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At Allenwater the roses were yet in bloom: and the clematis and honeysuckle twined beneath the latticed windows, whilst through the flower gardens the stream of Allen flowed smooth and clear. Every object around breathed the fragrance of plants—the charms and sweets of nature. The heat of summer had not parched its verdant meads, and autumn's yellow tints had but just touched the shadowy leaf. Wearied with scenes of woe, Lord Avondale, having broken from society and friends, had retired to this retreat—a prey to the fever of disappointment and regret—wounded by the hand of his adversary, but still more effectually destroyed by the unkindness and inconstancy of his friend.