CHAPTER I.

RACHEL FROST.


The slanting rays of the afternoon sun, drawing towards the horizon,
fell on a fair scene of country life; flickering through the young
foliage of the oak and lime trees, touching the budding hedges, resting
on the growing grass, all so lovely in their early green, and lighting
up with flashes of yellow fire the windows of the fine mansion, that,
rising on a gentle eminence, looked down on that fair scene as if it
were its master, and could boast the ownership of those broad lands, of
those gleaming trees.

Not that the house possessed much attraction for those whose taste
savoured of the antique. No time-worn turrets were there, or angular
gables, or crooked eaves, or mullioned Gothic casements, so chary of
glass that modern eyes can scarcely see in or out; neither was the
edifice constructed of gray stone, or of bricks gone black and green
with age. It was a handsome, well-built white mansion, giving the
promise of desirable rooms inside, whose chimneys did not smoke or their
windows rattle, and where there was sufficient space to turn in. The
lower windows opened on a gravelled terrace, which ran along the front
of the house, a flight of steps descending from it in its midst. Gently
sloping lawns extended from the terrace, on either side the steps and
the broad walks which branched from them; on which lawns shone gay
parterres of flowers already scenting the air, and giving promise of the
advancing summer. Beyond, were covered walks, affording a shelter from
the sultry noontide sun; shrubberies and labyrinths of many turnings and