The Argosy — page 201: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

184 Winifred Power. Z think they are quite unworthy to be the companions of such a man as Sir John.” ‘Ts he so very cultivated, then ?” asked Winifred, a little subdued. “7 think so. I believe that a love of old books is generally supposed to show a cultivated mind.” ‘“ That depends upon whether the collector reads them or not, answered Winifred brightly. ‘‘Sir John has always been something of a Sphinx to me. From his letters to Aunt Mary I never could make out what manner of man he was intellectually.” ‘Vou will soon know, my almost too-clever daughter,” rejoined Mrs. Fane, with a smile and a little pat on Winifred’s cheek. I have authorised Sir John to take for us the pretty cottage I told you about. We shall find him a delightful neighbour.” In a very short while Mrs. Fane crossed the channel with her daughter and maid, to take possession of this desirable cottage ; which had been made ready for them. It was in the neighbourhood of Sir John Hatherley’s residence of later years, and not too far from London. But on their arrival they heard that Sir John and his family were still away ; and it struck Winifred that this piece of news curiously dashed her mother. Mrs. Fane could console herself, if necessary, by contemplating Sir John’s handsome residence, The Limes, its velvet lawns and _ its beautiful grounds. For the grand stuccoed mansion, placed on a slight rise, looked down upon the neighbourhood both metaphorically and materially. It was the largest and the finest house in the place, and the centre of much local social ambition: to be inyited to it was | an honour; to be shut out from it a reproach. To Winifred, fresh from the roar of Paris, there was something very soothing in this suburban neighbourhood, with its pretty red-brick dwellings, with creepers climbing up them, and the flowers blooming in the beds behind the iron wickets. The neighbourhood was already a tolerably large one and grew, alas, daily. But there was still a common; still a rustic-looking ale-house ; still a genuine English lane or two, which echoed to the cry of the cuckoo in spring and the songs of nightingales in summer. And on each side of the lanes were buttercup-strewn meadows, where kine crouched beneath the shade, and rooks cawed in the branches of the noble elms. Mrs. Chandos-Fane had time to unpack all her dresses, and Winifred to settle down to her work, before the shutters of The Limes were opened and the butcher’s boy and the baker’s drove their carts with greater importance for the knowledge that “Sir John” had returned. (Zo be continued. ) Gomicbooks.Go