Beyond “the little lawn, surrounded by choice evergreens,” there was “an old-fashioned greenhouse and a filbert-tree walk, from which again three detached gardens sloped abruptly down to one of the clear, dancing rivulets of that western country.” These three gardens are still to be seen. A part of them is well cultivated, and abounds in smooth lawns, majestic trees and flowers of all kinds; but that part which belongs to the older portion of the mansion, deserted for many years, is left wild and untended. It is, however, pathetically beautiful in its mixture of garden flowers and showy weeds. The high box-edgings to the borders prove that great care was once taken of the place, and the tall rose bushes which still abound stretch out their long branches of pink and white blossoms as if to hide what is mean and unsightly. “In the steep declivity of the central garden,” writes Mary, “which I was permitted to call mine, was a grotto overarching a cool, sparkling spring, never overflowing its small sandy basin, which yet was always full.” “Years many and long,” she adds, “have passed since I sat beside that tiny fountain, and yet never have I forgotten the pleasure which I derived from watching its clear crystal wave.” “The slopes on either side of the grotto,” she says, “were carpeted with strawberries and dotted with fruit trees. One drooping medlar, beneath whose pendent branches I have often hidden, I remember well.” This spring is known in that country-side by the name of the “Lepers’ Well.” It is reached by a steep flight of rugged stone steps from the terrace above, and is still surrounded by old gnarled fruit trees, though the medlar seems to have disappeared. Beyond a low hedge at the foot of the grounds flows the little river Lym, clear and sparkling as ever. Lyme is full of traditions, and this little river, at one spot, bears the name of “Jordan,” so called by a colony of Baptists who took refuge in the neighbourhood during the seventeenth century. It was in “Jordan” that they immersed their converts, and the old Biblical names given by them to the adjoining fields of Jericho and Paradise still linger in that district. “I used to disdain the [Devonshire] streamlets,” writes Mary, “with such scorn as a small damsel fresh from the Thames and the Kennett thinks herself privileged to display. ‘They call that a river here, papa! Can’t you jump me over it?’ quoth I in my sauciness. About a month ago I heard a young lady from New York talking in some such strain of Father Thames. ‘It’s a pretty little stream,’ said she, ‘but to call it a river!’ And I half expected to hear a complete reproduction of my own impertinence, and a request to be jumped from one end to the other of Caversham Bridge!” [Illustration] CHAPTER VI A STORMY COAST Writing of her sojourn at Lyme Regis Miss Mitford says:—