sea-birds flew by with busy wings, white sails gleamed in
the sunshine. Occasionally a large steamer passed; there was no sound
save the rich, never-changing music of Nature, the rush of wind and
waves, the grand, solemn anthem that the sea never tires of singing.

Far down the cliff ran the zigzag path that led to the village; there
was no sign of the sea on the other side of the white rocks. There the
green fields and pretty hop-gardens stretched out far and wide, and the
Farthinglow Woods formed a belt around them. In the midst of a green,
fertile valley stood the lovely village of Knutsford. It had no
regular street; there were a few cottages, a few farm houses, a few
little villas, one grand mansion, three or four shops, and quiet
homesteads with thatched roofs and eaves of straw.

The prettiest and most compact little farm in the village was the one
where Stephen Thorne and his wife dwelt. It was called the elms, a
long avenue of elms leading to the little house and skirting the broad
green meadows. It was at a short distance from the village, so quiet,
so tranquil, that, living there, one seemed out of the world.

Stephen Thorne and his wife were not rich. In spite of Lady Earle's
bounty, it was hard for them at times to make both ends meet. Crops,
even in that fair and fertile county, would fail, cattle would die,
rain would fall when it should not, and the sun refuse to shine. But
this year everything had gone on well; the hay stood in great ricks in
the farm yard, the golden corn waved in the fields ripe and ready for
the sickle, the cows and sheep fed tranquilly in the meadows, and all
things had prospered with Stephen Thorne. One thing only weighed upon
his heart--his wife would have it that Dora's letters grew more and
more sad; she declared her child was unhappy, and he could not persuade
her to the contrary.

It was a fair August evening. Ah! How weak and feeble are the words.
Who could paint the golden flush of summer beauty that lay over the
meadows and corn fields--the hedge rows filled with wild flowers, the
long, thick grass studded with gay blossoms, the calm, sullen silence
only broken by the singing of the birds, the lowing of cattle, the
rustling of green leaves in the sweet soft air?

Stephen Thorne had gone with his guest and visitor, Ralph Holt, to
fetch the cattle home. In Ralph's honor, good, motherly Mrs. Thorne
had laid out a beautiful tea--golden honey that seemed just gat