he two little girls had much to say about the laying out of
the terraced gardens, and insisted on having some beds of their own, to
plant with their favourite flowers. They were greatly pleased, too, at
discovering a very old chapel in the middle of the new house, and very
likely they told each other many stories of what went on there. Then
there was a summer-house, where they could have tea, and if you went
through the woods in May, and could make up your mind to pass the
sheets of blue hyacinths without stopping to pick them till you were too
tired to go further, you came out upon a splendid avenue, with a view of
the hills for miles round. This was the walk which Florence loved best.

* * * * *

It seems, however, that Mr. Nightingale could not have thought Lea Hurst
as pleasant as he expected it to be, for a few months later he bought a
place called Embley, near the beautiful abbey of Romsey, in Hampshire.
Here they all moved every autumn as soon as the trees at Lea Hurst grew
bare; and when the young leaves were showing like a green mist, they
began the long drive back again, sometimes stopping in London on the
way, to see some pictures and hear some music, and have some talk with
many interesting people whom Mr. Nightingale knew. And when they got
home at last, how delightful it was to ride round to the old friends in
the farms and cottages, and listen to tales of all that had happened
during the little girls' absence, and in their turn to tell of the
wonderful sights they had witnessed, and the adventures that had
befallen them! Best of all were the visits to the families of puppies
and kittens which had been born during their absence, for Florence
especially loved animals, and was often sent for by the neighbours to
cure them when they were ill. The older and uglier they were, the
sorrier Florence was for them, and she would often steal out with sugar
or apples or carrots in her pocket for some elderly beast which was
ending its days quietly in the fields, stopping in the woods on the way
to play with a squirrel or a baby rabbit. The game was perhaps a little
one-sided, but what did that matter? As the poet Cowper says,

Wild, timid hares were drawn from woods
To share her home caresses,
And looked up to her human eyes
With sylvan tendernesses.

Beasts and birds were Florence's dear friends, but dearest of all were
her ponies.

While she wa