At length he reached the entrance of Pinewood—­a high iron gate, between huge stone posts, on the tops of which were urns overflowing with vines, that hung down and partly tapestried the columns.  Immediately upon entering the grounds the carriage avenue wound away from the gate, so that the passer-by could see nothing as he looked through but the hedge which skirted and concealed the lawn.  The fence upon the road was a high, solid stone wall, along whose top clustered a dense shrubbery, so that, although the land rose from the road toward the house, the lawn was entirely sequestered; and you might sit upon it and enjoy the pleasant rural prospect of fields, woods, and hills, without being seen from the road.  The house itself was a stately, formal mansion.  Its light color contrasted well with the lofty pine-trees around it.  But they, in turn, invested it with an air of secrecy and gloom, unrelieved by flowers or blossoming shrubs, of which there were no traces near the house, although in the rear there was a garden so formally regular that it looked like a penitentiary for flowers.

These were the pine-trees that Hope Wayne had heard sing all her life—­but sing like the ocean, not like birds or human voices.  In the black autumn midnights they struggled with the north winds that smote them fiercely and filled the night with uproar, while the child cowering in her bed thought of wrecks on pitiless shores—­of drowning mothers and hapless children.  Through the summer nights they sighed.  But it was not a lullaby—­it was not a serenade.  It was the croning of a Norland enchantress, and young Hope sat at her open window, looking out into the moonlight, and listening.

Abel Newt opened the gate and passed in.  He walked along the avenue, from which the lawn was still hidden by the skirting hedge, went up the steps, and rang the bell.

“Is Mr. Burt at home?” he asked, quietly.

“This way, Sir,” said the nimble Hiram, going before, but half turning and studying the visitor as he spoke, and quite unable to comprehend him at a glance.  “I will speak to him.”

Abel Newt was shown into a large drawing-room.  The furniture was draped for the season in cool-colored chintz.  There was a straw matting upon the floor.  The chandeliers and candelabras were covered with muslin, and heavy muslin curtains hung over the windows.  The tables and chairs were of a clumsy old-fashioned pattern, with feet in the form of claws clasping balls, and a generally stiff, stately, and uncomfortable air.  The fire-place was covered by a heavy painted fire-board.  The polished brass andirons, which seemed to feel the whole weight of responsibility in supporting the family dignity, stood across the hearth, belligerently bright, and there were sprays of asparagus in a china vase in front of them.  A few pictures hung upon the wall—­family portraits, Abel thought; at least old Christopher was there, painted at the age of ten, standing, in very clean attire, holding a book in one hand and a hoop in the other.  The picture was amusing, and looked to Abel symbolical, representing the model boy, equally devoted to study and play.  That singular sneering smile flitted over his face as he muttered, “The Reverend Gabriel Bennet!”