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Updated: June 2, 2025
Riversley Grange lay in a rich watered hollow of the Hampshire heath-country; a lonely circle of enclosed brook and pasture, within view of some of its dependent farms, but out of hail of them or any dwelling except the stables and the head-gardener's cottage.
Riversley Grange lay in a rich watered hollow of the Hampshire heath-country; a lonely circle of enclosed brook and pasture, within view of some of its dependent farms, but out of hail of them or any dwelling except the stables and the head-gardener's cottage.
The head-gardener's son came by with two pots of magnificent geraniums, one under each arm. "Where are you going with those flowers, Wilhelm?" I asked, running after him. "They are for the state salon, Fraeulein Gretchen," he replied, and hurried on. For the state salon! I ran round to the side of the grand entrance.
"Well, he's nearly ninety a man can't expect to live for ever. Time he did go." John Grange walked away toward the head-gardener's cottage to ask for the last news, and Daniel Barnett stood watching him with a frown on his rather handsome features. "Poor old Dunton!" said John Grange to himself; "we shall miss him when he's gone." "Hang him!" muttered Barnett, "that's it.
It was plain enough that her father favoured the head-gardener's visits, and in her misery her thoughts turned to John Grange, the tears falling softly the while. All at once she started away from the window, for, plainly heard, a low, deep sigh came from the dark shadow of the trees across the road. Daniel Barnett? John Grange? There so late? Who could it be?
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