about her--"why should all that land be devoted to mere ornament? It
seems nothing more nor less than a tempting of Providence." Here she
suddenly raised her voice. "Driver," she said, "have the goodness to
poke up your horse, and to go a little faster. I happen to be in a
hurry."

"'Orse won't do it, ma'am," was the response. "Steep 'ill this. Can't
go no faster."

The little lady gave an indignant snort, and retired once more into
the depths of the gloomy fly. Presently a bend in the avenue brought
the old manor house into view. Once more she thrust out her head and
examined it critically.

"There it stands," she said to herself. "I was very happy at the Manor
as a girl. I wonder if the old garden still exists. Twenty to one it
has been done away with; there's no saying. Evangeline had such
dreadfully queer ideas. Yes, there stands the house, and I do hope
some remnants of the garden are in existence; but the thing above all
others to consider now is, what kind these children are. Poor David,
he was quite mad about Evangeline--not that I ever pretended to
understand her. She was an American, and I hate the Americans; yes, I
cordially hate them. Poor David, however, was devoted--oh, it was
melancholy, melancholy! I suppose it was on account of Evangeline that
all this splendid land has been allowed to lie fallow--not even cows,
not even a stray sheep to eat all that magnificent grass. Wherever I
turn I see flower-beds--flower-beds sloping away to east and west, as
far almost as the eye can travel. And so there are four children. I
have no doubt they are as queer, and old-fashioned, and untrained as
possible. It would be like their mother to bring them up in that sort