BLACK SHEEP!

By THE AUTHOR OF "LAND AT LAST," "KISSING THE ROD,'
&c. &c.

CHAPTER VII. AMONG THE BEECHES.

A FINE avenue of beech-trees led from the
gate through which George Dallas had passed,
to the house which had attracted his admiration.
These grandest and most beautiful of
trees were not, however, the distinguishing
feature of the place: not its chief pride. "The
Sycamores" was so called in honour of a
profusion of trees of that kind, said in the neighbourhood
to have no rivals in all England. Be that
as it might, the woodland scenery in Sir Thomas
Boldero's noble park was beautiful in the
highest degree, and of such beauty George
Dallas was keenly and artistically appreciative.
The tender loveliness of the spring was
abroad throughout the land; its voices, its
gladness, its perfumes, were around him everywhere,
and as the young man strolled on under
the shadow of the great branches, bearing their
tender burden of bright, soft, green, half-
unclosed buds, the weight and blackness of care
seemed to be lifted off him, and his heart
opened to fresh, pure, simple aspirations, long
strangers to his jaded but not wholly vitiated
character. He was very young, and the blessed
influence of youth told upon him, its power of
receiving impressions, its faculty of enjoyment,
its susceptibility to external things—a blessing
or a curse as it is used—its buoyancy, its
hopefulness. As George Dallas turned from the
broad smooth carriage-way, and went wandering
over the green elastic turf of the carefully
kept park, winding in and out through the boles
of the grand old trees, treading now on a tender
twig, again on a wild flower, now startling from
her nest a brooding lark, anon stopping to listen
to a burst of melody from some songster free
from domestic cares, he was hardly
recognisable as the man who had sat listening to
Philip Deane's hard worldly talk at the Strand
tavern the day before.

"Brighter and softer" his mother had said
he was looking, and it was true. Brighter
and softer still the hard, pleasure-wearied,
joyless face became, as the minutes stole over him,
among the sycamores and beeches. He had
pursued his desultory path a mile or more, and
had lost sight of the house and the avenue,
when he came to a beautiful open glade,
carpeted with turf of the softest green, and
overarched by forest trees. Looking down its long
vista, he saw that it terminated with a brilliant
flower-garden, and a portion of a noble stone
terrace, lying beneath one side of the many
turreted house. He stood entranced by the
beauty of the scene, and, after a few moments,
felt in his pocket for pencil and paper, in
order to sketch it. He found both, and looking
round him, saw a piece of the trunk of a
felled tree, not yet removed by the care of the
forester.

"A capital place to sketch from," thought
George, as he folded his coat, and laid it upon
the convenient block, and immediately became
absorbed in his occupation. He was proceeding
rapidly with his sketch, and feeling rather
disposed to get it finished as quickly as he could,
in order that he might return to the inn and
procure some food, of which he stood in
considerable need, when he caught the sound of
galloping upon the turf in the distance behind
him. He raised his head and listened; there
it was, the dull, rapid thud of hoofs upon the
grass. Was there one rider, or were there more?
He listened again—only one, he thought; and
now the rapid noise ceased, and was succeeded
by the slow, pattering sound of a horse ridden
daintily and gently about and about, guided by
a capricious fancy. Still George listened, and
presently there came riding out of the shadowy
distance into the full expanse of the glade, down
which the declining sun sent golden rays, as if
in salutation, a lady, who was, as his first glance
showed him, young and beautiful. She was
quite unconscious of his presence, for the piece
of timber on which he had been sitting was out
of the line of sight, and though he had risen, he
was still standing beside it. She came towards
him, her slight form swaying to the movements
of her bright bay thorough-bred, as she put the
animal through all sorts of fanciful paces, now
checking him with the rein, now encouraging him
with her clear sweet young voice, and patting
his arched neck with her white-gloved hand.
The young man looked out from his hiding-
place, enraptured, as she came on, a vision of
youth, beauty, and refinement, down the wide
green glade, the sun shining on her, the birds
singing, the flowers blooming for her, the proud
walls of the old house rising grandly in the
background, as if in boast of the worthy shelter