The house was an old, rambling affair, with irregular wings and a centre building three stories high, with heavy stone chimneys, that time itself seemed incapable of destroying, and a peaked roof, with gable-windows, that, however, were all for outside show, looking only from an open garret. It was a substantial edifice, built of stone, but the wings were of wood, with verandas and French windows, half buried in creeping vines and climbing roses. A tall elm-tree towered upward in front of the centre building, sweeping its long pendent branches over the roof, thus softening the contrast between the grim old front with its stone portal, and the wings with their fanciful drapery of flowers. The ground sloped unevenly from the front of the building, and was broken up here and there with fruit-trees and flowerthickets, until it was separated from a gentle hill by one of those small inland streams that render quiet scenery of this kind so beautiful. Here a clump of weeping-willows gave their waving and golden green to the air, forming one of the most lovely features of a landscape every way Arcadian. It was a large house, and the modern portion seemed quite unnecessary, save as an embellishment, for two quieter people could not well have been found than the old couple who had inhabited the centre building, with its antique furniture and old-fashioned mouldings, for more than half a century. One day, not far from the time of our last chapter, old Mrs. Ford was, or seemed to be, alone in this dwelling; for the kitchen was so far away from the room she occupied, that no household-sound reached her. It was a calm June day. The air was balmy with fruit-blossoms. The sky was softly blue, with a white cloud here and there drifting soft snowy billows over it; for a light rain had just passed away, leaving heaps of pearl clouds on the horizon and a world of diamond drops among the green-leaves and fruit-blossoms, that impregnated them with perfume. The window of her sitting-room was open, and Mrs. Ford leaned out, not to gaze upon the landscape, though she felt all its beauty, but with a keener interest and deeper anxiety than mere familiar Nature could afford. Her husband, a very old man, had gone to the city, and the old lady was anxiously watching his return. It was now two hours beyond the time. He had driven a fiery horse and was without attendant; what might have happened? Why would not her husband be content to drive a staid family horse, or take the man-servant with him? Why did he go to the city at all? These might have been her reflections on ordinary occasions; but now a deeper cause of anxiety gave keenness to those aged eyes, and sent a nervous quiver to those locked hands, whenever a sound startled her.