The squire and Mr. Faradeane made their way round the grounds, and presently, as if unconsciously, the elder man linked his arm within that of the younger, an action very unusual with the squire, and one which indicated the favorable impression his visitor had made upon him. “It is a very beautiful place,” said Mr. Faradeane, when they had made the round of the flower gardens and lawns, and looked in at the great, walled garden, with its hundreds of peach and nectarine trees, and at the long length of green-houses in which the gardener grew the choice flowers which would, if he had entered them, have taken the first prize at all the local shows, “a very beautiful place; I think it would be sinful not to be proud of it, Mr. Vanley.” The squire looked at him with a nod of appreciation, then suddenly his face clouded, and he stifled a sigh. “There is plenty of room for improvement,” he said, as if to account for the sigh. “There always is,” said Faradeane. “Fortunately, no place is perfect--we should tire of it very soon if it were. Don’t you think a plantation on that rise to the left of the lawn would be a good thing?” The squire nodded. “Yes,” he said, moodily. “Yes; but it would cost----” He stopped and glanced at the handsome face quickly. “I’m afraid you think I must be very niggardly to grudge a few hundreds for so evident an improvement; but----” He paused; and Faradeane, with the tact which seemed so easy when he chose to display it, said: “In these days no man has too much money.” “That is true,” assented the squire, as if glad of the excuse so pleasantly offered. “Quite true; these are hard times for us landlords everywhere.” “Indeed they are,” acquiesced Faradeane. The squire looked at him. “Are you one of the unfortunate army of landowners?” he inquired. Faradeane paused for half a second, then he laughed. “You forget that I am the landlord of The Dell, and quite half an acre of garden land! And that reminds me that I must be going. Thank you very much, Mr. Vanley.” The squire shook the strong, shapely hand warmly, and stood for a moment looking after the tall, patrician figure as it made its way with strong, easy stride across the grass; then he went back to the house with a grave, wistful face. Perhaps he was wishing that Heaven had given him such a son as a brother to his precious Olivia; or, perhaps he was thinking of the plantation and the hard times which made the expenditure of the “few hundreds” not only difficult, but impossible. Olivia was standing at the door, waiting for him. “You have had a visitor, papa?” she said, quietly, and in the tone one uses when one has rehearsed a speech--almost too careless and indifferent. “Yes, yes,” he said, “Mr. Faradeane. He has just gone. I am sorry you were not in to see him.” “Was he worth seeing, then?” said Olivia, still too carelessly.