am more in love each day with this residence. The
situation is so sheltered, the air so soft and pure, the spot so
tranquil, and the season so delicious, that it realises all my romance
of retirement. As for you, I never saw you look so well; and as for
Venetia, I can scarcely believe this rosy nymph could have been our
pale-eyed girl, who cost us such anxiety!'

'Our breakfast is not ready. Let us walk to our sea view,' said Lady
Annabel. 'Give me your book to carry, Marmion.'

'There let the philosopher repose,' said Herbert, throwing the volume
on the turf. 'Plato dreamed of what I enjoy.'

'And of what did Plato dream, papa?' said Venetia.

'He dreamed of love, child.'

Venetia took her father's disengaged arm.

They had now arrived at their sea view, a glimpse of the Mediterranean
between two tall crags.

'A sail in the offing,' said Herbert. 'How that solitary sail tells,
Annabel!'

'I feel the sea breeze, mother. Does not it remind you of Weymouth?'
said Venetia.

'Ah! Marmion,' said Lady Annabel, 'I would that you could see Masham
once more. He is the only friend that I regret.'

'He prospers, Annabel; let that be our consolation: I have at least
not injured him.'

They turned their steps; their breakfast was now prepared. The sun had
risen above the hill beneath whose shade they rested, and the opposite
side of the valley sparkled in light. It was a cheerful scene. 'I have
a passion for living in the air,' said Herbert; 'I always envied the
shepherds in Don Quixote. One of my youthful dreams was living among
mountains of rosemary, and drinking only goat's milk. After breakfast
I will read you Don Quixote's description of the golden age. I have
often read it until the tears came into my eyes.'

'We must fancy ourselves in Spain,' said Lady Annabel; 'it is not
difficult in this wild green valley; and if we have not rosemary, we
have scents as sweet. Nature is our garden here, Venetia; and I do not
envy even the statues and cypresses of our villa of the lake.'

'We must make a pilgrimage some day to the Maggiore, Annabel,' said
Herbert. 'It is hallowed ground to me now.'

Their meal was finished, the servants brought their work, and books,
and drawings; and Herbert, resuming his natural couch, re-opened his
Plato, but Venetia ran into the villa, and returned with a volume.
'You must read us the golden age, papa,' she said, as she offered him,
with a smile, his favourite Don Quixote.

'You must