of
picturesque beauty in the flat surroundings; and yet this very
flatness _did_ lend a charm peculiar to itself. My eyes ever found a
delight in its purple distances and in the great, broad-armed trees
marking the graceful curves of the river. The approach from the public
road, which followed the bank of the river, was through the "willow
lane," between deep-cut ditches, which kept the roadway well drained
unless the river overspread its banks, when the lane was often
impassable for days. In the springtime, when the tender green boughs
of the willows were swayed by the breeze, it was a lovely spot, and a
favorite resort of the children.

I was so young a bride, only seventeen, when I was taken to our winter
home, and so inexperienced, that I felt no dread whatever of my new
duties as mistress. The household comforts of my childhood's home had
seemed to come so spontaneously that I never thought of _processes_,
and naturally felt rather nonplussed when brought into contact with
realities. The place had for years been merely a sort of camping-out
place for your great-grandfather, who liked to spend a part of the
winter there; so the house was given over to servants who made him
comfortable, but who took little heed of anything else.

I recollect my antipathy to a certain old press which stood in the
back hall. The upper part was filled with books. In the under
cupboard, Minerva kept pies, gingerbread, plates of butter, etc. The
outside looked very dim and dusty. I could not bear to look at it,
but knew not how to remedy its defects. I know now that it was a
handsome old piece, which a furniture-lover would delight in. However,
my youthful appetite did not scorn Minerva's gingerbread, and, as I
had many lonely hours to get through with as best I could, I would
mount the highest chair that I could find, and ransack the old musty
volumes in search of amusement. The collection consisted chiefly of
antiquated medical works, some tracts, etc., but once, to my delight,
I unearthed two of Mrs. Radcliffe's novels, which were indeed a
treasure trove; one of them was "Gaston de Blondeville," which I
thought beautiful. I have regretted that I did not take care of it,
for I have never seen another copy.

Minerva was a woman of pretty good sense, but of slatternly habits.
She had been so long without a lady to guide her that her original
training was either forgotten or entirely disregarded. Once, when
starting to Conacanarra for