'No; it is not pretty,' repeated the old lady; and, indeed, in no sense was it. Before luncheon Captain Lake arrived. 'So Wylder has run up to town,' I said, so soon as we had shaken hands in the hall. 'Yes; _I_ drove him to Dollington last night; we just caught the up train.' 'He says he'll be back again on Saturday,' I said. 'Saturday, is it? He seemed to think--yes--it _would_ be only a day or so. Some jewels, I think, for Dorcas. He did not say distinctly; I only conjecture. Lady Chelford and Miss Brandon, I suppose, in the drawing-room?' So to the drawing-room he passed. 'How is Rachel? how is your sister, Captain Lake, have you seen her to-day?' asked old Lady Chelford, rather benignantly. She chose to be gracious to the Lakes. 'Only, for a moment, thank you. She has one of her miserable headaches, poor thing; but she'll be better, she says, in the afternoon, and hopes to come up here to see you, and Miss Brandon, this evening.' Lord Chelford and I had a pleasant walk that day to the ruins of Willerton Castle. I find in my diary a note--'Chelford tells me it is written in old surveys, Wylderton, and was one of the houses of the Wylders. What considerable people those Wylders were, and what an antique stock.' After this he wished to make a visit to the vicar, and so we parted company. I got into Brandon Park by the pretty gate near Latham. It was a walk of nearly three miles across the park from this point to the Hall, and the slopes and hollows of this noble, undulating plain, came out grandly in the long shadows and slanting beams of evening. That yellow, level light has, in my mind, something undefinably glorious and melancholy, such as to make almost any scenery interesting, and my solitary walk was delightful. People must love and sympathise very thoroughly, I think, to enjoy natural scenery together. Generally it is one of the few spectacles best seen alone. The silence that supervenes is indicative of the solitary character of the enjoyment. It is a poem and a reverie. I was quite happy striding in the amber light and soft, long shadows, among the ferns, the copsewood, and the grand old clumps of timber, exploring the undulations, and the wild nooks and hollows which have each their circumscribed and sylvan charm; a wonderful interest those little park-like broken dells have always had for me; dotted with straggling birch and oak, and here and there a hoary ash tree, with a grand and melancholy grace, dreaming among the songs of wild birds, in their native solitudes, and the brown leaves tipped with golden light, all breathing something of old-world romance--the poetry of bygone love and adventure--and stirring undefinable and delightful emotions that mingle unreality with sense, a music of the eye and spirit.