short time back and there stood there an ancient house,
whose character, half quaint, half noble, might have made it seem a
French chateau; the tall, high-pitched roof, pierced with many a window;
the richly ornamented chimneys, the long terrace, with its grotesque
statues, and the intricate traceries of the old gate itself, all
evidencing a taste not native to our land. The very stiff and formal
avenue of lime-trees that led direct to the door had reference to a
style of landscape-gardening more consonant with foreign notions, even
without the fountains, which, with various strange groups of allegorical
meaning, threw their tiny jets among the drooping flowers. At the back
of the house lay a large garden, or rather what constituted both garden
and orchard; for although near the windows trim flower-beds and neatly
gravelled walks were seen, with rare and blossoming plants, as you
advanced, the turf usurped the place of the cultivated ground, and the
apple, the pear, and the damson formed a dense, almost impenetrable
shade.

Even on the brightest day in spring, when the light played and danced
upon the shining river, with blossoming cherry-trees, and yellow
crocuses in the grass, and fair soft daffodils along the water's edge,
smiling like timid beauties, when the gay May-fly skimmed the rippling
stream, and the strong trout splashed up to seize him,--even then, with
life and light and motion all around, there was an air of sadness on
this spot,--a dreary gloom, that fell upon the spirits less like sudden
grief than as the memory of some old and almost forgotten sorrow. The
frowning aspect of that stern mountain, which gave its name to the
place, and which, in its rugged front, showed little touch of time or
season, seemed to impress a mournful character on the scene. However it
was, few passed the spot without feeling its influence, nor is it likely
that now, when scarcely a trace of its once inhabited home remains, its
aspect is more cheering.

In a dark wainscoted room of this gloomy abode, and on a raw and dreary
day, our old acquaintance, Lady Hester, sat, vainly endeavoring between
the fire and the screen to keep herself warm, while shawls, muffs, and
mantles were heaped in most picturesque confusion around her. A French
novel and a Blenheim spaniel lay at her feet, a scarce-begun piece of
embroidery stood at one side of her, and an untasted cup of coffee on a
small table at the other. Pale, and perhaps seeming st