The old stone house was two stories high, with wings on each side,
which projected out beyond the main building; the space enclosed by
stone walls on three sides was floored with stone, and lofty stone
pillars ran up to the overhanging room. There was no intersection at
the second story, so that the view of the piazza from the upper
windows was uninterrupted. It was a pleasant piazza, fronting towards
the south, overlooking the old-fashioned garden with its little
box-bordered paths, and entirely cut off from the lake winds, which
are apt to have an easterly sharpness in them. On this piazza sat
Sibyl and Graham Marr, and the two listeners above caught fragments of
their poetical conversation. "I say, Bessie, do you know what a
'lambent waif' is?" whispered Hugh. "What a calf that Marr is! How can
Sibyl listen to him? He has not common sense."

"I believe he is to have uncommon cents, sometime," said Bessie,
punning atrociously. "However, if my knowledge of Sibyl is worth
anything, I should say she really prefers Mr. Leslie."

"What, the minister!" exclaimed Hugh; "I am surprised. Not that I
object at all, but ministers' wives sometimes have a hard life."

"Gideon Fish says, that ministers' wives ought to be the happiest
women on earth, because their husbands are always at home, brightening
the domestic shrine with their presence," quoted Bessie, with a
dramatic tone.

"That is a fish-story; I know it by the sound. I say, Bessie, wouldn't
it be fine fun to throw the great red blanket down on their heads in
the middle of the next verse?"