that he had not continued on his journey, as he was fully sensible that it was in some way connected with the railway he had quitted, presently his attention was directed to the gateway of a handsome park, whose mansion was faintly seen in the distance.  Hurrying towards him, down the avenue of limes, was a strange figure.  It was that of a man of middle age; clad in Quaker garb, yet with an extravagance of cut and detail which seemed antiquated even for England.  He had evidently seen the young man approaching, and his face was beaming with welcome.  If Paul had doubted that it was his uncle, the first words he spoke would have reassured him.

“Welcome to Hawthorn Hall,” said the figure, grasping his hand heartily, “but thee will excuse me if I do not tarry with thee long at present, for I am hastening, even now, with some nourishing and sustaining food for Giles Hayward, a farm laborer.”  He pointed to a package he was carrying.  “But thee will find thy cousins Jane and Dorcas Bunker taking tea in the summer-house.  Go to them!  Nay—­positively—­I may not linger, but will return to thee quickly.”  And, to Paul’s astonishment, he trotted away on his sturdy, respectable legs, still beaming and carrying his package in his hand.

“Well, I’ll be dog-goned! but the old man ain’t going to be left, you bet!” he ejaculated, suddenly remembering his dialect.  “He’ll get there, whether school keeps or not!” Then, reflecting that no one heard him, he added simply, “He certainly was not over civil towards the nephew he has never seen before.  And those girls—­whom I don’t know!  How very awkward!”

Nevertheless, he continued his way up the avenue towards the mansion.  The park was beautifully kept.  Remembering the native wildness and virgin seclusion of the Western forest, he could not help contrasting it with the conservative gardening of this pretty woodland, every rood of which had been patrolled by keepers and rangers, and preserved and fostered hundreds of years before he was born, until warmed for human occupancy.  At times the avenue was crossed by grass drives, where the original woodland had been displaced, not by the exigency of a “clearing” for tillage, as in his own West, but for the leisurely pleasure of the owner.  Then, a few hundred yards from the house itself,—­a quaint Jacobean mansion,—­he came to an open space where the sylvan landscape had yielded to floral cultivation, and so fell upon a charming summer-house, or arbor, embowered with roses.  It must have been the one of which his uncle had spoken, for there, to his wondering admiration, sat two little maids before a rustic table, drinking tea demurely, yes, with all the evident delight of a childish escapade from their elders.  While in the picturesque quaintness of their attire there was still a formal suggestion of the sect to which their father belonged, their summer frocks—­differing in color, yet each of the same subdued tint—­were alike in cut and fashion, and short enough to show