weetest
blossoms grew.

There was an old-world air about the place--something patrician, quiet,
reserved. It was no vulgar haunt for vulgar crowds; it was not a show
place; and the master of it, Sir Oswald Darrell, as he stood upon the
terrace, looked in keeping with the surroundings.

There was a _distingue_ air about Sir Oswald, an old-fashioned courtly
dignity, which never for one moment left him. He was thoroughly well
bred; he had not two sets of manners--one for the world, and one for
private life; he was always the same, measured in speech, noble in his
grave condescension. No man ever more thoroughly deserved the name of
aristocrat; he was delicate and fastidious, with profound and
deeply-rooted dislike for all that was ill-bred, vulgar, or mean.

Even in his dress Sir Oswald was remarkable; the superfine white linen,
the diamond studs and sleeve links, the rare jewels that gleamed on his
fingers--all struck the attention; and, as he took from his pocket a
richly engraved golden snuff-box and tapped it with the ends of his
delicate white fingers, there stood revealed a thorough aristocrat--the
ideal of an English patrician gentleman.

Sir Oswald walked round the stately terraces and gardens.

"I do not see her," he said to himself; "yet most certainly Frampton
told me she was here."

Then, with his gold-headed cane in hand, Sir Oswald descended to the
gardens. He was evidently in search of some one. Meeting one of the
gardeners, who stood, hat in hand, as he passed by, Sir Oswald asked:

"Have you seen Miss Darrell in the gardens?"

"I saw Miss Darrell in the fernery some five minutes since, Sir Oswald,"
was the reply.

Sir Oswald drew from his pocket a very fine white handkerchief and
diffused an agreeable odor of millefleurs around him; the gardener had
been near the stables, and Sir Oswald was fastidious.

A short walk brought him to the fernery, an exquisite combination of
rock and rustic work, arched by a dainty green roof, and made musical by
the ripple of a little waterfall. Sir Oswald looked in cautiously,
evidently rather in dread of what he might find there; then his eyes
fell upon something, and he said:

"Pauline, are you there?"

A rich, clear, musical voice answered:

"Yes, I am here, uncle."

"My dear," continued Sir Oswald, half timidly, not advancing a step
farther into the grotto, "may I ask what you are doing?"

"Certainly, uncle," was the cheerful reply; "you may ask by all