Early in April I made my first visit to Willowsmere, having received information from the head of the firm of decorators and furnishers employed there, that their work was close on completion, and that they would be glad of a visit of inspection from me. Lucio and I went down together for the day, and as the train rushed through a green and smiling landscape, bearing us away from the smoke, dirt and noise of the restless modern Babylon, I was conscious of a gradually deepening peace and pleasure. The first sight of the place I had recklessly purchased without so much as looking at it, filled me with delight and admiration. It was a beautiful old house, ideally English and suggestive of home-happiness. Ivy and jessamine clung to its red walls and picturesque gables,--through the long vista of the exquisitely wooded grounds, the silver gleam of the Avon river could be discerned, twisting in and out like a ribbon tied in true love-knots,--the trees and shrubs were sprouting forth in all their fresh spring beauty,--the aspect of the country was indescribably bright and soothing, and I began to feel as if a burden had been suddenly lifted from my life leaving me free to breathe and enjoy my liberty. I strolled from room to room of my future abode, admiring the taste and skill with which the whole place had been fitted and furnished, down to the smallest detail of elegance, comfort and convenience. Here my Sibyl was born, I thought, with a lover-like tenderness,--here she would dwell again as my wife, amid the lovely and beloved surroundings of her childhood,--and we should be happy--yes, we should be happy, despite all the dull and heartless social doctrines of the modern world. In the spacious and beautiful drawing-room I stopped to look out from the windows on the entrancing view of lawn and woodland that stretched before me,--and as I looked, a warm sense of gratitude and affection filled me for the friend to whose good offices I owed this fair domain. Turning, I grasped him by the hand. "It is all your doing, Lucio!" I said--"I feel I can never thank you enough! Without you I should perhaps never have met Sibyl,--I might never have heard of her, or of Willowsmere; and I never could have been as happy as I am to-day!" "Oh, you are happy then?" he queried with a little smile--"I fancied you were not!" "Well--I have not been as happy as I expected to be;" I confessed,--"Something in my sudden accession to wealth seems to have dragged me down rather than lifted me up,----it is strange----" "It is not strange at all"--he interrupted,--"on the contrary it is very natural. As a rule the most miserable people in the world are the rich." "Are you miserable, for instance?" I asked, smiling. His eyes rested on me with a dark and dreary pathos.