until he reached an open space on the other side of the village, where
he paused. On either side hedges partly screened undulating meadows, the
broad sweeps of emerald green interspersed here and there with small
groups of trees in whose shadows cattle grazed. A stream with lively
murmur meandered downward; in a bush, at his approach, a bird began to
sing, and involuntarily the man stopped; but only for a moment. Soon
rose before him the top of a modest steeple; then a church, within the
sanctuary of whose yard old stones mingled with new. He stepped in;
"straight on across the churchyard!" had been Sir Charles' direction.
John Steele moved quickly down the narrow path; his eye had but time to
linger a moment on the monuments, ancient and crumbling, and on
headstones more recently fashioned, when above, another picture caught
and held his attention.

Strathorn House! A noble dwelling, massive, gray! And yet one that
lifted itself with charming lightness from its solid, baronial-like
foundation! It adorned the spot, merged into the landscape. Behind, the
forest, a dark line, penciled itself against the blue horizon; before
the ancient stone pile lay a park. Noble trees guarded the walks, threw
over them great gnarled limbs or delicately-trailing branches. Between,
the interspaces glowed bright with flowers; amid all, a little lake
shone like a silver shield bearing at its center a marble pavilion.

Long the man looked; through a faint veil of mist, turret and tower
quivered; strong lines of masonry vibrated. Wavering as in the spell of
an optical illusion, the structure might have seemed but a figment of
imagination, or one of those fanciful castles sung by the Elizabethan
brotherhood of poets. Did the image occur to John Steele, did he feel
for the time, despite other disquieting, extraneous thoughts, the subtle
enchantment of the scene? The minutes passed; he did not move.