and he kept to the path.  Another turn, and he caught his first glimpse of a chimney; another—­and the summit of a gable showed above the trees.  The sun, which had been hitherto obscured, now came out, and suddenly—­as if by the hand of magic—­the whole scene was a brilliant blaze of colour.  He had arrived at the end of the avenue, where the path forked; one branch turning sharply round in the direction of a side entrance to the house, whilst the other led with a gentle curvature to the front.

Facing the building was a broad expanse of velvety turf, relieved occasionally, here and there, by such showy shrubs as the hydrangea, rhododendron, or lilac; but more frequently, and at closer intervals, by clumps of geraniums, or roses—­roses of every variety.  There was nothing pretentious in the garden, any more than there was in the adjoining edifice.  Its unusually pleasing effect lay altogether in its artistic arrangement; and one could hardly help imagining that the whole scene had, in reality, been called into existence by the brush of some eminent landscape painter.

The cottage itself was constructed of old-fashioned Dutch shingles—­broad and with rounded corners—­and painted a dull grey; a tint which, when contrasted with the vivid green of the tulip trees that overshadowed the entrance to the house, and reared themselves high above it on either side, afforded an artistic happiness perfectly intoxicating to its present visitor.  The architecture of the cottage was—­if not Early Tudor—­something equally pleasing.  Its roofs were divided into many gables; its windows were diamond paned and projecting, whilst oaken beams ran latitudinally and vertically over its grey shingle front.  Encompassing the whole base of the exterior were masses of flowers—­pinks, carnations, heliotrope, pansies, poppies, lilies, wallflowers, roses and jasmines; and besides the latter several other creepers had been planted beneath the walls, but had not yet attained to any height.

Shiel Davenport, for it was he, could not resist the temptation of peeping in at the windows; and he saw that the interior of the cottage was artistry and simplicity itself.  At the windows, curtains of heavy white jaconet muslin, not too full, hung in sharp parallel plaits to the floor—­just to the floor.  The walls were papered with French papers of rare delicacy—­to match the seasons; (spring, summer, autumn and winter were all most effectively depicted), and the furniture though light, was at the same time costly.  And here again was the same effect of arrangement—­an arrangement obviously designed by the same brain that had planned the building and grounds.  Shiel could not conceive anything more graceful.  Flowers—­flowers of every hue and odour were the chief decoration of the cottage.  On almost every table were vases—­in themselves beautiful enough—­yet filled to overflowing with the finest roses.  Ox-eye daisies, hollyhocks and forget-me-nots clustered about the open windows.  And every puff of wind, every breath of air transmitted scent—­the most delicious medley of scent imaginable.