Who that knows Northumberland has not roamed delightedly beside the lovely Coquet, that tricksome little river which sometimes murmurs softly along its rocky bed, and anon--swollen and turbid--fiercely dashes against its steep banks, rushing on toward the ocean with a force and rapidity that carries everything before it. Those who have visited this capricious stream will remember Heriton Priory, one of the fairest and finest estates through which it wanders. Surrounded on three sides by hills which protect it from the keen winds, then sloping gently toward the river, the grounds are worthy the house, which is a fine specimen of the Tudor style of architecture. The ruins of the first priory--formerly the residence of a community of monks--still exist; and, owing to the care of their owners, are almost in as good condition as when the demesne was bestowed upon a certain Ralph de Heriton by Henry VIII. The priory had been in the same family ever since. Succeeding generations had added to and improved the estate, until at the commencement of the present reign it fell into the hands of Mr. Richard Heriton, the last of the male branch. He, too, pulled down, and rebuilt, and altered, and this at a rate which made some of his more prudent neighbors shrug their shoulders as they counted the cost. That the alterations were made with taste no one could deny, and at the time our story opens--that sweet, fragrant season when spring insensibly glides into summer--the priory gardens were in one flush of glowing beauty. It was literally a fairy scene, concealed from prying eyes by the towering heights which guarded and sheltered its loveliness. A young man whom Mr. Heriton had discovered pedestrianizing in the neighborhood, and on learning that they had mutual friends in London, had hospitably brought home with him, lay at full length on the greensward beneath a drooping ash tree. Frank Dormer had fixed himself in the library to have a quiet morning’s reading; but the twitter of the birds, the sunlight, and the sweet breath of the roses, drew him forth to spend an hour of half-sad, half-pleasant idleness. He had rarely looked on so fair a scene before. He might never behold it again, for he was daily expecting orders to sail for India, where he had received an appointment in the Civil Service. An orphan from an early age--looked coldly upon by his few relatives, and bandied from school to private tutor, from private tutor to college--he had never known the real meaning of the word home until these few happy weeks he had spent at the priory.