hearts of its inmates can diffuse over even a palatial homestead.
She also realized, without analyzing the fact, that the majestic
repose and boundless spontaneity of nature yielded a sense of
companionship almost of tender, dumb sympathy, which all the
polished artificialities and recherche arrangements of man utterly
failed to supply. While dazzled by the glitter and splendor of "Le
Bocage," she shivered in its silent dreariness, its cold,
aristocratic formalism, and she yearned for the soft, musical babble
of the spring-branch, where, standing ankle-deep in water under the
friendly shadow of Lookout, she had spent long, blissful July days
in striving to build a wall of rounded pebbles down which the
crystal ripples would fall, a miniature Talulah or Tuccoa. The
chrism of nature had anointed her early life and consecrated her
heart, but fate brought her to the vestibule of the temple of
Mammon, and its defiling incense floated about her. How long would
the consecration last? As she slowly limped about the house and
grounds, acquainting herself with the details, she was impressed
with the belief that happiness had once held her court here, had
been dethroned, exiled and now waited beyond the confines of the
park, anxious but unable to renew her reign and expel usurping
gloom. For some weeks after her arrival she took her meals in her
own room, and having learned to recognize the hasty, heavy tread of
the dreaded master of the house, she invariably fled from the sound
of his steps as she would have shunned an ogre; consequently her
knowledge of him was limited to the brief inspection and
uncomplimentary conversation which introduced him to her
acquaintance on the day of his return. Her habitual avoidance and
desire of continued concealment was, however, summarily thwarted
when Mrs. Murray came into her room late one night, and asked: