lying more southward the Isle of Man seems but a
blurred mass. Behind is the salt backwater of Strangford Lough, and this arm of sea keeps the temperature
so moist that snow rarely lies long, and the humid
nature of the soil causes the garden of Carrowdore
facing south to luxuriate in giant tree-myrtles, sweet
verbenas, and even hot-house flowers growing out of
doors. It is somewhat lonely in winter when the
wind blows over the bare low hills that have caused
The Ards to be compared to "a basket of eggs," but
pleasant in summer and picturesque when its environing woods are green, when the corncrakes call from
the meadows on June evenings, and the Orange drums
beat along the lanes.
Such was May de la Cherois-Crommelin's early home. Her present abode is a pretty flat near Victoria Street It seems quite appropriate that a well-filled bookcase should be the first thing that greets the eye as the hall door opens and admits you into a long carpeted passage, lined with a high dado of blue-and-white Indian matting, above which, on art paper of the same colours, hang several framed photographs, reminiscences of the Rhine, Nuremberg, and the Engadine. A little way down on the left is Miss Crowmelin's writing-room, which is laid down with Indian inatting, and contains an unusually large, workmanlike-looking writing-table, replete with little drawers, big drawers, and raised desk. The principal feature of this room is a carved oak fireplace, reaching nearly to the ceiling, and which is quite original in design and execution. There is a handsome old oak dower chest standing near the window, here an
