After gazing at the magnificent view, had anyone been there to look, they might have observed her shaking her head with great solemnity.  She had round black eyes, and a rather dark-complexioned face, with a good deal of color in her cheeks.  She was stoutly built, but the expression on her countenance was undoubtedly cheerful.  Nothing signified gloom about her except her heavy mourning.  Her eyes, although shrewd and full of common sense, were also kindly; her lips were very firm; there was a matter-of-fact expression about her whole appearance.

“Now, why does David waste all those acres of splendid land?” she muttered angrily to herself.  “The whole place, as far as I can see, seems to be laid out in grass.  I know perfectly well that this is an agricultural country, and yet, when produce is so precious, what do I see but a lawn here and another lawn there, and not even cows feeding on them.  Oh, yes! of course there is the park!  The park is right enough, and no one wants to interfere with that.  But why should all the land in that direction, and in that direction, and in that direction”—­here she put out her head again and looked frantically about her—­“why should all that land be devoted to mere ornament?  It seems nothing more nor less than a tempting of Providence.”  Here she suddenly raised her voice.  “Driver,” she said, “have the goodness to poke up your horse, and to go a little faster.  I happen to be in a hurry.”

“’Orse won’t do it, ma’am,” was the response.  “Steep ’ill this.  Can’t go no faster.”

The little lady gave an indignant snort, and retired once more into the depths of the gloomy fly.  Presently a bend in the avenue brought the old manor house into view.  Once more she thrust out her head and examined it critically.

“There it stands,” she said to herself.  “I was very happy at the Manor as a girl.  I wonder if the old garden still exists.  Twenty to one it has been done away with; there’s no saying.  Evangeline had such dreadfully queer ideas.  Yes, there stands the house, and I do hope some remnants of the garden are in existence; but the thing above all others to consider now is, what kind these children are.  Poor David, he was quite mad about Evangeline—­not that I ever pretended to understand her.  She was an American, and I hate the Americans; yes, I cordially hate them.  Poor David, however, was devoted—­oh, it was melancholy, melancholy!  I suppose it was on account of Evangeline that all this splendid land has been allowed to lie fallow—­not even cows, not even a stray sheep to eat all that magnificent grass.  Wherever I turn I see flower-beds—­flower-beds sloping away to east and west, as far almost as the eye can travel.  And so there are four children.  I have no doubt they are as queer, and old-fashioned, and untrained as possible.  It would be like their mother to bring them up in that sort of style.  Well, at least I am not the one to shirk my duty, and I certainly see it now staring me in the face.  I am the wife of a hard-working vicar; I work hard myself, and I have five children of my own; but never mind, I am prepared to do my best for those poor deserted orphans.  Ah, and here we are at last!  That is a comfort.”