This was rather a bitter thought, and, with his mind full of it, he passed under the archway, and found himself in a grand old garden —such a garden as those ancient monks knew how to make; and a garden which, since their time, had been lovingly kept up. It was formal—all laid out in oblongs and squares, but it had an indescribable beauty and grace. Great trees took away from the stiffness; brilliant flowers and intensely green grass made it gay. Under the trees to the right were some clumps of tall, fiery-looking gladioli. Straight before the house the ground sloped to the river, beside which was a long grassy walk and avenue, and a little farther to the right, still beside the river, the hoary cloisters. Jerome’s heart was exceeding bitter within him, as he saw and realised all the beauty of the place, which came back to him, after sixteen years, with a familiarity which was startling. The sixteen years were but ‘as yesterday.’ As he stood there, he felt it his—his own; the effort to conceive of it as belonging to some one else was a painful one—one which did not altogether succeed. ‘He _sold_ it!’ he was thinking to himself. ‘Sold it in cold blood. Why, if he had told us the truth, and kept it, he should have been happy; we would have made him happy here, let our poverty have been what it might.’ He walked up the round space of smoothly-rolled gravel before the deep entrance-door, and rang the bell. Mr. Bolton, he was told, was at home. Jerome sent in his card, and was shown into a room which he well remembered. It had formerly been the library, and appeared to be still used for the same purpose, though greatly changed from its old condition. It was not very vulgar, indeed one might almost have pronounced it not at all vulgar; but all the things were comparatively new, and evidently ‘of the very best.’ But the furniture was well chosen and appropriate; had Mr. Bolton or had his upholsterer chosen it? Jerome wondered, in a parenthesis as he looked around, and felt that the appearance of the room displayed a desire at least, if not a perfectly accomplished one, on the part of those who owned it, to be tasteful—a desire which he felt had resulted in being proper and philistine. He glanced at some books on the table, and at one or two in the book-shelves, and was struck at finding them to be nearly all confined to two classes—voyages and travels, and Italian books, the latter almost all bearing some reference to Dante, or to Dante’s great poem. ‘Odd!’ thought Jerome, and as he thought it, the door was opened, and Mr. Bolton entered.