be written. This is the same Dr. Vesey Stanhope, whose hospitable villa on the Lake of Como is so well known to the élite of English travellers, and whose collection of Lombard butterflies is supposed to be unique.
"Yes," said the warden, musing, "there is a very pretty garden at Crabtree, but I shall be sorry to disturb poor Smith." Smith was the curate of Crabtree, a gentleman who was maintaining a wife and half a dozen children on the income arising from his profession.
Eleanor assured her father that, as far as she was concerned, she could leave her house and her ponies without a single regret; she was only so happy that he was going—going where he would escape all this dreadful turmoil.
"But we will take the music, my dear."
And so they went on planning their future happiness, and plotting how they would arrange it all without the interposition of the archdeacon, and at last they again became confidential, and then the warden did thank her for what she had done, and Eleanor, lying on her father's shoulder, did find an opportunity to tell her secret: and the father gave his blessing to his child, and said that the man whom she loved was honest, good, and kind-hearted, and right-thinking in the main—one who wanted only a good wife to put him quite upright;—"a man, my love," he ended by saying, "to whom I firmly believe that I can trust my treasure with safety."
"But what will Dr. Grantly say?"
"Well, my dear, it can't be helped—we shall be out at Crabtree then."
And Eleanor ran upstairs to prepare her father's clothes for his journey; and the warden returned to his garden to make his last adieus to every tree, and shrub, and shady nook that he knew so well.
