_May 13th, Thursday_.--Mr. Eldredge (for it was he) first kept his eyes
fixed full on Middleton's face, with an expression as if he saw him not;
but gradually--slowly, at first--he seemed to become aware of his
presence; then, with a sudden flush, he took in the idea that he was
encountered by a stranger in his secret mood. A flush of anger or shame,
perhaps both, reddened over his face; his eyes gleamed; and he spoke
hastily and roughly.

"Who are you?" he said. "How come you here? I allow no intruders in my
park. Begone, fellow!"

"Really, sir, I did not mean to intrude upon you," said Middleton
blandly. "I am aware that I owe you an apology; but the beauties of your
park must plead my excuse; and the constant kindness of [the] English
gentleman, which admits a stranger to the privilege of enjoying so much
of the beauty in which he himself dwells as the stranger's taste permits
him to enjoy."

"An artist, perhaps," said Mr. Eldredge, somewhat less uncourteously. "I
am told that they love to come here and sketch those old oaks and their
vistas, and the old mansion yonder. But you are an intrusive set, you
artists, and think that a pencil and a sheet of paper may be your
passport anywhere. You are mistaken, sir. My park is not open to
strangers."

"I am sorry, then, to have intruded upon you," said Middleton, still in
good humor; for in truth he felt a sort of kindness, a sentiment,
ridiculous as it may appear, of kindred towards the old gentleman, and
besides was not unwilling in any way to prolong a conversation in which
he found a singular interest. "I am sorry, especially as I have not even