... “musical with bees;
     Such tents the patriarchs loved.”

As they approached, the old statesman strode to the open door to meet them.  He was a very tall man, with a bright, florid face, and a great deal of fine, white hair.  Two large sheep-dogs, which only wanted a hint to be uncivil, walked beside him.  He had that independent manner which honorable descent and absolute ownership of house and land give; and he looked every inch a gentleman, though he wore only the old dalesman’s costume,—­breeches of buckskin fastened at the knees with five silver buttons, home-knit stockings and low shoes, and a red waistcoat, open that day, in order to show the fine ruffles on his shirt.  He was precisely what Squire Sandal would have been, if the Sandals had not been forced by circumstances into contact with a more cultivated and a more ambitious life.

“Welcome, Sandal!  I have been watching for thee.  There would be little prosperation in a shearing if thou wert absent.  And a good day to thee, Charlotte.  My Ducie was speaking of thee a minute ago.  Here she comes to help thee off with thy things.”

Charlotte was untying her bonnet as she entered the deep, cool porch, and a moment afterward Ducie was at her side.  It was easy to see the women loved each other, though Ducie only smiled, and said, “Come in; I’m right glad to see you, Charlotte.  Come into t’ best room, and cool your face a bit.  And how is Mrs. Sandal and Sophia?  Be things at their usual, dear?”

“Thank you, Ducie; all and every thing is well,—­I hope.  We have not heard from Harry lately.  I think it worrits father a little, but he is never the one to show it.  Oh, how sweet this room is!”

She was standing before the old-fashioned swivel mirror, that had reflected three generations,—­a fair, bright girl, with the light and hope of youth in her face.  The old room, with its oak walls, immense bed, carved awmries, drawers, and cupboards, made a fine environment for so much life and color.  And yet there were touches in it that resembled her, and seemed to be the protest of the present with the past,—­vivid green and scarlet masses of geranium and fuchsia in the latticed window, and a great pot of odorous flowers upon the hearthstone.  But the peculiar sweetness which Charlotte noticed came from the polished oak floor, which was strewed with bits of rosemary and lavender, to prevent the slipping of the feet upon it.

Charlotte looked down at them as she ejaculated, “How sweet this room is!” and the shadow of a frown crossed her face.  “I would not do it, Ducie, for any one,” she said.  “Poor herbs of grace!  What sin have they committed to be trodden under foot?  I would not do it, Ducie:  I feel as if it hurt them.”

“Nay, now; flowers grow to be pulled dear, just as lasses grow to be loved and married.”

“Is that what you think, Ducie?  Some cherished in the jar; some thrown under the feet, and bruised to death,—­the feet of wrong and sorrow,”—­