“This is a most romantic spot, Miss Oldcastle,” I said; “and as surprising as it is romantic. I could hardly believe my eyes when I looked out of the window and saw it first.” “Your surprise was the more natural that the place itself is not properly natural, as you must have discovered.” This was rather a remarkable speech for a young lady to make. I answered— “I only know that such a chasm is the last thing I should have expected to find in this gently undulating country. That it is artificial I was no more prepared to hear than I was to see the place itself.” “It looks pretty, but it has not a very poetic origin,” she returned. “It is nothing but the quarry out of which the old house at the top of it was built.” “I must venture to differ from you entirely in the aspect such an origin assumes to me,” I said. “It seems to me a more poetic origin than any convulsion of nature whatever would have been; for, look you,” I said—being as a young man too much inclined to the didactic, “for, look you,” I said—and she did look at me—“from that buried mass of rock has arisen this living house with its histories of ages and generations; and”— Here I saw a change pass upon her face: it grew almost pallid. But her large blue eyes were still fixed on mine. “And it seems to me,” I went on, “that such a chasm made by the uplifting of a house therefrom, is therefore in itself more poetic than if it were even the mouth of an extinct volcano. For, grand as the motions and deeds of Nature are, terrible as is the idea of the fiery heart of the earth breaking out in convulsions, yet here is something greater; for human will, human thought, human hands in human labour and effort, have all been employed to build this house, making not only the house beautiful, but the place whence it came beautiful too. It stands on the edge of what Shelley would call its ‘antenatal tomb’—now beautiful enough to be its mother—filled from generation to generation “— Her face had grown still paler, and her lips moved as if she would speak; but no sound came from them. I had gone on, thinking it best to take no notice of her paleness; but now I could not help expressing concern. “I am afraid you feel ill, Miss Oldcastle.” “Not at all,” she answered, more quickly than she had yet spoken. “This place must be damp,” I said. “I fear you have taken cold.” She drew herself up a little haughtily, thinking, no doubt, that after her denial I was improperly pressing the point. So I drew back to the subject of our conversation. “But I can hardly think,” I said, “that all this mass of stone could be required to build the house, large as it is. A house is not solid, you know.”