Not far from the cathedral we had strayed into a garden, for the great gates were open and the vision dazzled us.  We had rarely seen such a wealth of flowers.  Large rose-trees, covered with blooms, outvied each other in scenting the air with delicious perfume.  Some of these trees or bushes were many yards round.  Immense rhododendrons also flourished.  Exquisite and graceful trees rose above them; the laburnum, no longer in bloom, acacias, and the lovely pepper tree.  Standing out from a wealth of blossom and verdure was an old well, surmounted by some ancient and picturesque ironwork.  Beyond it was a yet more ancient and picturesque house of grey stone, an equally venerable flight of steps leading up to the front entrance.  The house was large, and whatever it might be now, must once have fulfilled some ecclesiastical purpose.  It occupied the whole length of the large garden, the remainder being closed in by high walls.  Opposite, to the right, uprose the Bishop’s palace, and beyond it the lovely towers and spires of the cathedral.

It was one of those rare scenes very seldom met with, which plunge one at once out of the world into an Arcadia beautiful as dreamland.  We stood and gazed, silent with rapture and admiration; threw conventionality to the winds, forgot that we had no right here, and wandered about, inhaling the scent of the flowers, luxuriating in their rich colours, feasting our eyes and senses on all the old-world beauty of architecture by which we were surrounded; carrying our sight upwards to the blue skies and wondering if we had not been transported to some paradise beyond the veiling.  It was a Garden of Eden.

[Illustration:  CHAPEL OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS, ROSCOFF.]

Then suddenly at the open doorway of the house appeared a lady with a wealth of white hair and a countenance full of the beauty of sweetness and age.  She was dignified, as became the owner of this fair domain, and her rich robe rustled as she quietly descended the steps.

We now remembered ourselves and our intrusion, yet it was impossible to retreat.  We advanced bareheaded to make our humble apologies and sue for grace.

The owner of this earthly paradise made us an elaborate curtsey that surely she had learned at the Tuileries or Versailles in the bygone days of an illustrious monarchy.

“Monsieur,” she said, in a voice that was still full of melody, “do not apologise; I see that you are strangers and foreigners, and you are welcome.  This garden might indeed entice anyone to enter.  I have grown old here, and my eyes are never tired of beholding the beauties of Nature.  In St. Pol we are favoured, you know, in possessing one of the most fertile soils in France.”

And then she bade us enter, with a politeness that yet sounded like a command; and we obeyed and passed up the ancient steps into a richly-panelled hall.  Over the doorways hung boars’ heads, shot by her sons, Countess C——­ for she told us her name—­informed us, in the forests of Brittany.