We must cherish our garden-plots, then, and hope that the lime-flowers will abound on the lawn, and the thyme in the kitchen-garden, and the wild flowers on the moorland, that our hives may be full, and all ready for the first swarm when the boys come home.
SPIRIT PAINTING.
CHAPTER I.
“Standish, by all that’s acceptable!”
“Frank Markham, by all that is hairy! Why Frank, man, where do you spring from, after being lost to the world for years?”
“I have been completing my education as a painter, my dear Alf. Last of all I come from my studio in Brompton, and before that from Jerusalem, where I have been painting a big picture; and if you will look for it next year at the Academy, your weak mind will be astonished to find all my Jews with blue eyes and unobtrusive noses, which, after all, is the most frequent type out there. And now, Alfred, what of you during the four years I have been travelling;—married?” (I knew Alfred had been in love for years.)
“Yes; my uncle, Sir James, is dead, and I have been married these three years and more. And some day, Frank, you must see my little son.”
“And his mamma,” interrupted I. “Why, Sir Alfred, have you forgotten the old agreement that I was to take your wife’s picture. Luckily, I have waited so long that I can now introduce the young heir too.”
So it was all arranged; and soon after (it was in the pleasant month of August) I found myself on my way to Garton. It was a quaint and castellated house, consisting mostly of several octagon towers. There was a fine view of the sea from the hall-door; indeed you had not many hundred yards to go to find yourself on the edge of the cliff, against which, at high tides, the sea impatiently beat, as if longing to undermine it all. I found myself alone on arriving at Garton; both Sir Alfred and Lady Standish were out; but, as I returned from a short ramble on the shore, I found Lady Standish just alighting from her carriage at her own door.
“Mr. Markham, I presume,” she said: and apologising for the absence of Sir Alfred, she led the way to a bench in the garden, where we sat talking for some time.
I remembered how Alfred used to rave to me about his Isabel’s wonderful hair, in the days when I was his confidant; he used to declare it would puzzle me when I came to paint it, being the true “blue-black” which was so rare and beautiful. I smiled to myself now, as I glanced at Lady Standish’s head, for I could see nothing peculiar