nxiously and excitedly around her.

After gazing at the magnificent view, had anyone been there to look,
they might have observed her shaking her head with great solemnity.
She had round black eyes, and a rather dark-complexioned face, with a
good deal of color in her cheeks. She was stoutly built, but the
expression on her countenance was undoubtedly cheerful. Nothing
signified gloom about her except her heavy mourning. Her eyes,
although shrewd and full of common sense, were also kindly; her lips
were very firm; there was a matter-of-fact expression about her whole
appearance.

"Now, why does David waste all those acres of splendid land?" she
muttered angrily to herself. "The whole place, as far as I can see,
seems to be laid out in grass. I know perfectly well that this is an
agricultural country, and yet, when produce is so precious, what do I
see but a lawn here and another lawn there, and not even cows feeding
on them. Oh, yes! of course there is the park! The park is right
enough, and no one wants to interfere with that. But why should all
the land in that direction, and in that direction, and in that
direction"--here she put out her head again and looked frantically
about her--"why should all that land be devoted to mere ornament? It
seems nothing more nor less than a tempting of Providence." Here she
suddenly raised her voice. "Driver," she said, "have the goodness to
poke up your horse, and to go a little faster. I happen to be in a
hurry."

"'Orse won't do it, ma'am," was the response. "Steep 'ill this. Can't
go no faster."

The little lady gave an indignant snort, and retired once more into
the depths of the gloomy fly. Presently a bend in the avenue brought
the old manor house into view. Once more she thrust out her head and
examined it critically.

"There it stands," she said to herself. "I was very happy at the Manor
as a girl. I wonder if the old garden still exists. Twenty to one it
has been done away with; there's no saying. Evangeline had such
dreadfully queer ideas. Yes, there stands the house, and I do hope
some remnants of the garden are in existence; but the thing above all
others to consider now is, what kind these children are. Poor David,
he was quite mad about Evangeline--not that I ever pretended to
understand her. She was an American, and I hate the Americans; yes, I
cordially hate them. Poor David, however, was devoted--oh, it was
melancholy, melancholy! I suppose it was on account o