Mr. Shapleigh declined to weep over this terrible prospect. Then came the ornamentation of the grounds. Mrs. Shapleigh’s idea of decorative art was a liberal supply of fresh paint of every hue of the rainbow. She had an elaborate affair of knobs and latticework, painted a vivid green, put up in the river between Deerchase and Belfield, in place of the old water fence of posts and rails. A fence of some sort was necessary to keep the cattle from wading down the salt marshes and following the river shore into forbidden fields. The cows came tramping placidly down the marshy creek until they got to the wonderful water fence, where they turned tail and trotted rapidly off, their frightened calves bleating after them. The picturesque, unpainted bridge across the creek was metamorphosed into a highly ornate construction with a summerhouse in the middle, expressly designed for Sylvia, who was then in short frocks, and Skelton to do their courting in eventually. Never was there such general overhauling and painting. The pigeon house was painted red and the turnstiles blue. When everything was done, and Mrs. Shapleigh was felicitating herself that Richard Skelton could no longer have the satisfaction of thinking Deerchase was unsurpassed, Skelton could not look toward Belfield without laughing, nor could anybody else, for that matter. Skelton spent a full year at Deerchase, and just as he had brought the house and grounds to perfection this sudden idea of going to Europe possessed him. It was a great undertaking in those days. He had nobody to consult, nobody knew he was going, and nobody would grieve for him except some of the older house servants. Although Skelton was an indulgent master, he never exchanged a word with his negroes, who were entirely managed by overseers. The afternoon before he left he was on the river in his boat. It was a cloudy September day. Usually the scene was full of light and glow--the broad, bright river, the cheerful homesteads, his own beautiful Deerchase, and not even Mrs. Shapleigh, had been able to spoil the fair face of Nature with her miscalled ornamentation; but on that day it was dull and inexpressibly gloomy. A grey mist folded the distant landscape. The river went sullenly to the sea. Afar off in the marshes could be heard the booming of the frogs--the most doleful of sounds--and the occasional fugitive cry of birds going south rang shrilly from the leaden sky.