is
eyeglass with reckless energy. "But I said nothing to the people about
living there all the year round. On the contrary, I think it more
probable that I shall--run up to town myself, occasionally--just for
the season."

CHAPTER XV

On a perfect summer afternoon in mid-July, Lady Mary sat in the
terrace garden at Barracombe, before the open windows of the silent
house, in the shade of the great ilex; sometimes glancing at the book
she held, and sometimes watching the haymakers in the valley, whose
voices and laughter reached her faintly across the distance.

Some boys were playing cricket in a field below. She noted idly that
the sound of the ball on the bat travelled but slowly upward, and
reached her after the striker had begun to run. The effect was
curious, but it was not new to her, though she listened and counted
with idle interest.

The old sisters had departed for their daily drive, which she daily
declined to share, having no love for the high-road, and much for the
peace which their absence brought her.

It was an afternoon which made mere existence a delight amid such
surroundings.

Long shadows were falling across the bend of the river, below the
wooded hill which faced the south-west; whilst the cob-built,
whitewashed cottages, and the brown, square-towered church lay full in
sunshine still. The red cattle stood knee-deep in the shallows, and an
old boat was moored high and dry upon the sloping red banks.

The air was sweet with a thousand mingled scents of summer flowers:
carnations, stocks, roses, and jasmine. The creamy clusters of
Perpetual Felicity rioted over the corner turret of the terrace, where
a crumbling stair led to the top of a small, half-ruined observatory,
which tradition called the look-out tower.

Flights of steps led downwards from the garden, where the bedded-out
plants blazed in all their glory of ordered colour, to the walks on
the lower levels. Here were long herbaceous borders, backed by the
mighty sloping walls of old red sandstone, which, like an ancient
fortification, supported the terrace above.

The blue larkspur flourished beside scarlet gladioli, feather-headed
spirea, and hardy fuchsia. There were no straight lines, nor any order
of planting. The Madonna lilies stood in groups, lifting up on thin,
ragged stems their pure and spotless clusters, and overpowering with
their heavy scent the fainter fragrance of the mignonette. Tall, green
hollyhocks towere