until his father came into the property. Then
he returned with his wife, a very nice lady.

The father and son, whom we all called the
young Squire, did not get on at all together
— they were so different. The old lawyer
was loud, noisy, and hearty: the young Squire
was pale, shy, and silent. He had not married
according to his father's liking, and he did
not push himself forward. He liked his book
and hated the bottle.

When lawyer Rigors married Kitty Carter,
the young Squire left the park and went
abroad, travelling in foreign parts,—France,
Italy, and such like; for the old gentleman
made them a handsome allowance. At
length the old gentleman went too fast,
though Kitty took all the care of him she
could,—was taken sick, lingered for several
months, and died.

Of course, the young Squire was sent for:
it turned out that he had left a curious will
that no one could understand, with all sorts
of directions; but, above all, a great income
and one of his best estates to Kitty, for life, if
she did not marry. They say the look the
Squire gave Kitty, when the will was read,
was awful. And that he flung out of the
room without noting the hand—Kitty, who was
always a friendly soul—held out to him.

Now, when the old lawyer died, I will say
there was not a more beautiful place in the
kingdom. You went up a drive through the
little park, after passing the lodge-gate under
an avenue of beech and oak-trees—that led
straight to the lake fed by the springs that
flowed out in  a waterfall and went murmuring
along for miles: a stream swarming with
trout. On the other side the lake was the
Place, a stone house, standing behind some
terraced gardens that led down to the water,
with rich parti-coloured beds dotting over
the green lawns flanked by groves and bright
evergreens. Behind the house the lawns
and gardens rolled until bounded by plantations
where vistas opened views of the distant
hills and the pasture fields of the home-farm.
The range of walled gardens were placed on
the warm south side, quite out of sight; there,
the best fruit-trees had been grown ever since
the monks made the gardens. The old lawyer
spent thousands in building graperies and
pineries, for he prided, himself on having the
best of everything.

To walk out on an autumn evening on
those terrace-gardens, all red and gold and
green with flowers, turf, and evergreen, and
see the lake where the coots and wild-
ducks played, and the swans sailed proudly,
find the many-coloured trees of the park,
where the pet deer lay or browzed, with
everything as perfect as men and money,
scythes and brooms and weeders, could make
it. Often I was up by daybreak to see that
the gardeners made all ready for lawyer
Rigors to see, when he came from his annual
London visit.

And the house was a fine old place with
suites of rooms, one leading from another,
without end, and a great hall and a long
gallery, where the family portraits hung, and
the lawyer put up a billiard table where he
and his friends played in wet weather.

The old lawyer was buried before the letter
telling of his death reached the son, so Mrs.
Kitty cleared and went to her jointure house
and from that up to London, where she met
young Mr. Rigors, and heard the will read.

We had orders to get all ready to receive
him. I mind it as if it was yesterday, seeing
the big travelling coach, piled with trunks
and imperials, come up the avenue and wind
round the lake, as fast as four horses could
trot. The children had their faces all out of
the windows, wild with delight, and in a
minute after the coach stopped at the hall door,
the boys were out and over the gardens
pulling the fruit, and into the stables, and
then back to the house, and running races
through the corridors.

At first, the young Squire, as we still called
him, kept up something of his father's style,
though he put down four horses to a pair, and
got rid of a lot of idle men servants. The
calls of those gentry that came, he returned,
but excused himself on the ground of his
health, and the education of his children
from receiving formal company.

The children, were very happy—every
day hunting out new stores and treasures,
riding the ponies and donkeys, and making
all sorts of pets in the preserves and
on the home-farm. But month by month
expenses were cut down, until at length the
Squire sent for me—having taken it into his
head that I was the steadiest fellow there—and
told me that he was not what people thought;
but very poor, and that everything must be
made to pay. The gamekeepers were all to
go, except two woodmen, and all the fancy
gardeners. The old lawyer had a dozen, one
for each department. All the land that could
was to be let, and the fruit and vegetables
sold. He did not say this at first, but he
hinted, and I understood him. Do the best
you can, says he, don't ask me for money, and
I shall expect the house well kept in dairy
and poultry, and the land in hand to pay a
fair rent.

In two years you never saw such a ruin! I
verily believe the master's fractious mean
ways broke his lady's heart; anyhow she
pined away and died before the worst. After
her death the Squire went fairly wild on
saving.

You never saw such a change in a place in
all your life. The coach-horses were not
sold, but set to plough and cart. A many of
the fancy beds for flowers were sowed with
potatoes, turnips, mangolds, and such like.
The lawns were let go to grass, and even
grazed over. And as for the park, it was
grazed down to the bare roots with stock at
so much a-head, until no one would send any
more in to be starved. Geese and ducks were