it ain't the same place it wor in my day."

"You remember it in other hands, then?"

"Ay, ay! When the Hogtons had it, honest folk! My good man was the
gardener,--none of those set-Lip fine gentlemen who can't put hand to a
spade."

Poor faithful old woman!

I began to hate the unknown proprietor. Here clearly was some mushroom
usurper who had bought out the old simple, hospitable family, neglected
its ancient servants, left them to earn tizzies by showing waterfalls,
and insulted their eyes by his selfish wealth.

"There's the water all spilt,--it warn't so in my day," said the guide.

A rivulet, whose murmur I had long heard, now stole suddenly into view,
and gave to the scene the crowning charm. As, relapsing into silence,
we tracked its sylvan course, under dripping chestnuts and shady limes,
the house itself emerged on the opposite side,--a modern building of
white stone, with the noblest Corinthian portico I ever saw in this
country.

"A fine house indeed," said I. "Is Mr. Trevanion here much?"

"Ay, ay! I don't mean to say that he goes away altogether, but it ain't
as it wor in my day, when the Hogtons lived here all the year round in
their warm house,--not that one."