to his inheritance, married a handsome, sensible daleswoman with whom he
had long been in love. Then he retired from a world which had nothing to
give him comparable, in his eyes, with the simple, dignified pleasures
incident to his position as Squire of Sandal-Side. For dearly he loved
the old hall, with its sheltering sycamores and oaks,--oaks which had
been young trees when the knights lying in Furness Abbey led the
Grasmere bowmen at Crécy and Agincourt. Dearly he loved the large, low
rooms, full of comfortable elegance; and the sweet, old-fashioned, Dutch
garden, so green through all the snows of winter, so cheerfully grave
and fragrant in the summer twilights, so shady and cool even in the
hottest noons.

Thirty years ago he was coming through it one July evening. It had been
a very hot day; and the flowers were drooping, and the birds weary and
silent. But Squire Sandal, though flushed and rumpled looking, had still
the air of drippy mornings and hazy afternoons about him. There was a
creel at his back, and a fishing-rod in his hand, and he had just come
from the high, unplanted places, and the broomy, breezy moorlands; and
his broad, rosy face expressed nothing but happiness.

At his side walked his favorite daughter Charlotte,--his dear companion,
the confidant and sharer of all his sylvan pleasures. She was tired and
dusty; and her short printed gown showed traces of green, spongy grass,
and lichen-covered rocks. But her face was a joy to see: she had such
bright eyes, such a kind, handsome mouth, such a cheerful voice, such a
merry laugh. As they came in sight of the wide-open front-doors, she
looked ruefully down at her feet and her grass-and-water-stained skirt,
and then into her father's face.

"I don't know what Sophia will say if she sees me, father; I don't,