was too well-bred to urge it beyond a certain point.

'Milly, my dear, will you put on your hat and show me the grounds about the
house? May she, Silas? I should like to renew my acquaintance.'

'You'll see them sadly neglected, Monnie. A poor man's pleasure grounds
must rely on Nature, and trust to her for effects. Where there is fine
timber, however, and abundance of slope, and rock, and hollow, we sometimes
gain in picturesqueness what we lose by neglect in luxury.'

Then, as Cousin Monica said she would cross the grounds by a path, and meet
her carriage at a point to which we would accompany her, and so make her
way home, she took leave of Uncle Silas; a ceremony whereat--without, I
thought, much zeal at either side--a kiss took place.

'Now, girls!' said Cousin Knollys, when we were fairly in motion over the
grass, 'what do you say--will he let you come--yes or no? I can't say, but
I think, dear,'--this to Milly--' he ought to let you see a little more of
the world than appears among the glens and bushes of Bartram. Very pretty
they are, like yourself; but very wild, and very little seen. Where is your
brother, Milly; is not he older than you?'

'I don't know where; and he is older by six years and a bit.'

By-and-by, when Milly was gesticulating to frighten some herons by the
river's brink into the air, Cousin Monica said confidentially to me--

'He has run away, I'm told--I wish I could believe it--and enlisted in a
regiment going to India, perhaps the best thing for him. Did you see him
here before his judicious self-banishment?'

'No.'

'Well, I suppose you have had no loss. Doctor Bryerly says from all he can
learn he is a very bad young man. And now tell me, dear, _is_ Silas kind to
you?'

'Yes, always gentle, just as you saw him to-day; but we don't see a great
deal of him--very little, in fact.'

'And how do you like your life and the people?' she asked.

'My life, very well; and the people, _pretty_ well. There's an old women we
don't like, old Wyat, she is cross and mysterious and tells untruths; but I
don't think she is dishonest--so Mary Quince says--and that, you know, is a
point; and there is a family, father and daughter, called Hawkes, who live
in the Windmill Wood, who are perfect savages, though my uncle says they
don't mean it; but they are very disagreeable, rude people; and except them
we see very little of the servants or other people. But there has been a
mysterious visit; some o