"gardens" as ourselves, and were amusing as bringing one within sight
of what an old friend of mine, named Bentley, called with more than
his usual gloom and severity of expression, "the remote outpost of
Kensington Society."

For these reasons, and a great many much better ones, I was very
much elated to have the family, or at least the three eldest girls
who represent it to the neighbourhood, standing once more on the
well-rubbed lawn of our old garden, where some of my earliest
recollections were of subjecting them to treatment such as I
considered appropriate to my own well-established character of
robber, tying them to trees to the prejudice of their white frocks,
and otherwise misbehaving myself in the funny old days, before I went
to school and became a son of gentlemen only. I have never been able,
in fact I have never tried, to tell which of the three I really liked
best. And if the severer usefulness and domesticity of the eldest
girl, with her quiet art-colours, and broad, brave forehead as pale
as the white roses that clouded the garden, if these maturer
qualities in Nina demanded my respect more than the levity of the
others, I fear they did not prevent me feeling an almost equal tide
of affection towards the sleepy acumcn and ingrained sense of humour
of Ida, the second girl and book-reader for the family: or Violet, a
veritably delightful child, with a temper as formless and erratic as
her tempest of red hair.

"What old memories this garden calls up," said Nina, who like many
essentially simple and direct people, had a strong dash of sentiment
and a strong penchant for being her own emotional pint-stoup on the
traditional subjects and occasions. "I remember so well coming here
in a new pink frock when I was a little girl. It wasn't so new when