The Argosy — page 90: what you’re looking at

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

ONE CHRISTMAS EVE. HE sun is setting—the faint, December sun. A light wind stirs the boughs of the grand old oaks ; the brown leaves remaining upon the twigs rustle, crackle and fall, to lie amidst the moss and acorn cups that carpet the earth. ‘The Berkeley shore lies in shadow, but half the Severn is gilded by a streak of hight. The Cliffs of Anst with their white spar are dazzlingly brilliant; but, the sun is setting ; dusk will soon approach. “The Court,” built in a Medieval Age, glows deep red, with harmonious blending of celour at this witching hour. Its gables and turrets and ivy-covered chimney stacks carry one back to the reign of good Queen Bess; and old Dinah standing at the door of her bricked kitchen, is quaintly-enough fashioned for a creation of the same age. Dr. Driver owned the Court and loved it, but as his busy life did not permit him to cultivate the broad farm lands, he allowed his cousin, Ned Burnett, to lease the place, and live there the uncere- monious life of a farmer. For himself, he lved in a cottage up in the village, but spent all the time he could spare with his cousin at the Court. He was a lonely man, and though eccentric, clever enough to have made a mark in the world, had he not been rich ‘enough to be lazy. He was tall and handsome, with large, brilliant blue eyes, that looked you through and through ; and pleasant clear- cut features, and he was just thirty years of age. He was proud of his Gloucestershire blood, of his knowledge of country dialect, and the respect and affection of the village folk. None of these last-named sources of gratification would have been his in London, and he knew it. He hated towns and townsfolk, and, heaven knows how deeply, he detested those fashionable town relations who never would forget he was of the same kin as themselves. Not even the dusk of evening can hide the scowl which gathers on his face as old Dinah beckons him, from the kitchen door. The cows ey . . ¢. . . _ are standing in the barn-yard, waiting to be milked. Dinah crosses "4 me _ the threshold in her blue gown, quaint in pattern from head to foot, a woman fashioned for the needs of bygone days. ‘That rambling _ old mansion and she might well be buried together ; some such Christian sentence is formed by Dr. Driver, as he crosses the yard. “"They be come, both on ’em,” said Dinah with a leer of excessive ~ joy at the Doctor's evident displeasisré. “ An’ that there Miss q Frances, she’ve bin a skimmin’ the cream in my dairy. Miss Kitty, she laughed and she kissed me, she did ; but she ain’t half as pretty as she used to was.” COREL Oo© SS) (©) mM