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302 park, eighteen miles at least in circumference—that solid palace which, without inconvenience, could entertain and stow away a king and his whole court—in short, all that evidence of a princely territory, and a weighty rent-roll, made English dukes re- spectfully envious, and foreign potentates gratifyingly jealous.

But turn from the front. Open the gate in that stone balus- trade. Come southward to the garden side of the house. Lady Montfort's flower-garden. Yes; not so dull! flowers, even autumnal flowers, enliven any sward. Still, on so large a scale, and so little relief; so little mystery about those broad gravel-walks; not a winding alley any where. Oh for a vulgar summer-house; for some alcove, all honey-suckle and ivy! But the dahlias are splendid! Very true; only dahlias, at the best, are such uninteresting prosy things. What poet ever wrote upon a dahlia! Surely Lady Montfort might have intro- duced a little more taste here—shown a little more fancy! Lady Montfort! I should like to see my lord's face, if Lady Montfort took any such liberty. But there is Lady Montfort walking slowly along the broad, broad, broad gravel walk— those splendid dahlias, on either side, in their set parterres. There she walks, in full evidence from all those sixty remorse- less windows on the garden front, each window exactly like the other. There she walks, looking wistfully to the far end—('tis a long way off)—where, happily, where is a wicket that carries a persevering pedestrian out of sight of the sixty windows, into shady walks, toward the banks of that immense piece of water, two miles from the house. My lord has not returned from his moor in Scotland—my lady is alone. No company in the house —it is like saying, " No acquaintance in a city." But the re- tinue is full. Though she dined alone, she might, had she pleased, have had almost as many servants to gaze upon her as there were windows now staring at her lonely walk, with their glassy spectral eyes.

Just as Lady Montfort gains the wicket she is overtaken by a visitor, walking fast from the gravel sweep by the front door, where he has dismounted—where he has caught sight of her; any one so dismounting might have caught sight of her—could not help it. Gardens so fine, were made on purpose for fine persons walking in them to be seen.

"Ah, Lady Montfort," said the visitor, stammering painfully, "I am so glad to find you at home."

"At home, George!" said the lady, extending her hand; "where else is it likely that I should be found? But how pale you are! What has happened?"