Before long Mrs. Hargrave put her head into the room to tell her husband that she was ready; whereupon my uncle pocketed his letter, and giving us a nod, went out. I watched them leave the house--my uncle walking a yard or two behind his wife, as people who have been long married often do--and then said to Conny, “Let us go and stroll in the grounds.” She made no answer, but went upstairs to get her hat, and returned after a short absence, looking very docile and even frightened. I noticed as I held the door open for her to pass out, that she looked at the clock, making perhaps the tenth time she had done so in less than twenty minutes. But I was in the humour to interpret every action of hers, into a compliment to myself, and was quite willing to believe that this farewell peep at the clock was merely meant to satisfy herself that she would have two good hours with me alone before her papa and mamma returned. The grounds covered pretty nearly seven acres. They were wonderfully well tended, and had been laid out with great judgment and good taste. They were richly stocked with trees; at one extremity was a fine orchard; the wilder aspects of nature had been judiciously preserved, and among the trees, in some portions of the estate, you would have imagined yourself in the wilds of a forest. The evening was beautiful, beyond the power of language to describe. The sun shone brightly, but with the mellow and tender light that it takes in its descent, and which deepens upon it as it nears the western horizon. Under the trees a soft and fairy-like night had gathered, though here and there the sunshine streamed through the branches, and bathed the deep green grass with pools of yellow splendour. Far and near, the pink hills reared their wooded ridges to the sky; while the quiet breeze rang with the silvery chimes of the distant church-bells. “Englishmen are quite right in believing in their country,” said I. “It is the finest place in the world to live in.” “You like it better than France?” “I like Updown better than Longueville, certainly. What makes you smile? I suppose you think me capricious and unfaithful to my old affections.” “And yet I am sure you find Updown very much duller than Longueville.” “I daresay I should, if it were not for Grove End.” “We are dull enough here.” “_I_ am not. I am very happy. I know I should be very sorry to go back to Longueville, unless I could return to it on my own terms.” “What are they?” “First of all, I should wish to take you with me.” “Oh, Charlie,” she exclaimed, striking at the grass with her parasol, “I hope you are not going to talk any nonsense.” “It all depends,” I replied, gravely, “on what you call nonsense.” “Flattery is nonsense, and compliments, and personal remarks.” “Dear Conny, I haven’t flattered you?” “See how fine the trees look, and the sky. Let us talk about Wordsworth.” “I’d rather talk about you.” “I hope you won’t.”