n to the family of De Montford.
The De Montfords did not prosper; after some generations the abbey fell
into ruins, and then they sold the abbey to the Taynes, who had long
wished for it on account of the similarity of names. Our ancestors built
the present mansion called Tayne Abbey; each succeeding Tayne had done
something to beautify it--one had built the magnificent picture gallery,
and had made a magnificent collection of pictures, so magnificent,
indeed, as to rob the Taynes for many years afterward of some part of
their revenue. There they stood still, a fortune in themselves. Another
Tayne had devoted himself to collecting gold and silver plate; in no
other house in England was there such a collection of valuable plate as
in ours. A third Tayne had thought of nothing but his gardens, devoting
his time, thoughts and money to them until they were wonderful to
behold. There were no square and round beds of different flowers,
arranged with mathematical precision; the white lilies stood in great
white sheaves, the eucharis lilies grew tall and stately, the grand
arum lily reared its deep chalice, the lovely lily of the valley shot
its white bells; there were every variety of carnation, of sweet
williams, of sweet peas, of the old-fashioned southernwood and pansy;
there grew crocus, snowdrop and daffadowndilly; great lilac trees, and
the white auricula were there in abundance; there, too, stood a sun-dial
and a fine fountain. It was a garden to please a poet and a painter; but
I have to tell the story of the lives of human beings, and not of
flowers.

The first memory that comes to me is of my beautiful young mother; the
mention of her name brings me the vision of a fair face with hair of
bright gold, and deep, large, blue eyes; of soft silken dresses, from
the folds of which came the sweetest perfume; of fine trailing laces,
fine as the intricate work of a spider's web; of white hands, always
warm and soft, and covered with sparkly rings; of a sweet, low voice,
that was like the cooing of a dove. All these things come back to me as
I write the word "mother." My father, Sir Roland Tayne, was a hearty,
handsome, pleasure-loving man. No one ever saw him dull, or cross, or
angry; he was liberal, generous, and beloved.

He worships my beautiful young mother, and he worshiped me. Every one
said I was the very image of mama. I had the same golden hair and
deep-blue eyes; the same shaped face and hands. I remember that my