But Kenelm did not talk on. They had now arrived at the garden-gate of Mrs. Cameron’s cottage, and the elder persons in advance paused at the gate and walked with them to the house. It was a long, low, irregular cottage, without pretension to architectural beauty, yet exceedingly picturesque,--a flower-garden, large, but in proportion to the house, with parterres in which the colours were exquisitely assorted, sloping to the grassy margin of the rivulet, where the stream expanded into a lake-like basin, narrowed at either end by locks, from which with gentle sound flowed shallow waterfalls. By the banks was a rustic seat, half overshadowed by the drooping boughs of a vast willow. The inside of the house was in harmony with the exterior,--cottage-like, but with an unmistakable air of refinement about the rooms, even in the little entrance-hall, which was painted in Pompeian frescos. “Come and see my butterfly-cage,” said Lily, whisperingly. Kenelm followed her through the window that opened on the garden; and at one end of a small conservatory, or rather greenhouse, was the habitation of these singular favourites. It was as large as a small room; three sides of it formed by minute wirework, with occasional draperies of muslin or other slight material, and covered at intervals, sometimes within, sometimes without, by dainty creepers; a tiny cistern in the centre, from which upsprang a sparkling jet. Lily cautiously lifted a sash-door and glided in, closing it behind her. Her entrance set in movement a multitude of gossamer wings, some fluttering round her, some more boldly settling on her hair or dress. Kenelm thought she had not vainly boasted when she said that some of the creatures had learned to know her. She released the Emperor of Morocco from her hat; it circled round her fearlessly, and then vanished amidst the leaves of the creepers. Lily opened the door and came out. “I have heard of a philosopher who tamed a wasp,” said Kenelm, “but never before of a young lady who tamed butterflies.” “No,” said Lily, proudly; “I believe I am the first who attempted it. I don’t think I should have attempted it if I had been told that others had succeeded before me. Not that I have succeeded quite. No matter; if they don’t love me, I love them.” They re-entered the drawing-room, and Mrs. Cameron addressed Kenelm. “Do you know much of this part of the country, Mr. Chillingly?” “It is quite new to me, and more rural than many districts farther from London.” “That is the good fortune of most of our home counties,” said Mr. Braefield; “they escape the smoke and din of manufacturing towns, and agricultural science has not demolished their leafy hedgerows. The walks through our green lanes are as much bordered with convolvulus and honeysuckle as they were when Izaak Walton sauntered through them to angle in that stream!” “Does tradition say that he angled in that stream? I thought his haunts were rather on the other side of London.”