"
The old steward viewed with a desolate stare the May landscape,
brightly lit with sunshine and bloom, and said wearily:
"But what can one expect in this wretched, half-civilized country? Now
in England--"
His voice lingered long upon that fondly loved word, and his young
master concluded the sentence with,
"There would be little hope, but in this 'brave new world,' where the
odour of the woods is a tonic, and the air brings healing and balm,
how can death exist? Ah, Tredway, this is a beautiful country!"
"To me there is but one beautiful country--that is England." Again
there was that lingering intonation.
Edward Macleod gave vent to a short melancholy laugh. The allurements
of an old civilization were over-ripe to his taste. Promise appealed
to his imagination; fulfilment was a dull fact. Along with the
unmistakable evidences of birth and breeding in his person, there was
in his fresh youth and buoyancy something joyously akin to the
vigorous young life about him.
"England," said Tredway, with his disapproving regard fixed upon the
wilderness around, "is a garden."
"And I take no delight in gardens," declared Edward.
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