seats of bark, cane and metal were scattered through the grounds, and where the well-trimmed numerous hedges divided the parterre, china, marble and iron vases of varied mould, held rare creepers and lovely exotics; and rich masses of roses swung their fragrant chalices of crimson and gold, rivaling the glory of Paestum and of Bendemer.  The elevation upon which the house was placed commanded an extensive view of the surrounding country.  Far away to the northeast purplish gray waves along the sky showed a range of lofty hills, and in an easterly direction, scarcely two miles distant, glittering spires told where the village clung to the railroad, and to a deep rushing creek, whose sinuous course was distinctly marked by the dense growth that clothed its steep banks.  Now and then luxuriant fields of corn covered the level lands with an emerald mantle, while sheep and cattle roamed through the adjacent champaign; and in the calm, cool morning air, a black smoke-serpent crawled above the tree-tops, mapping out the track over which the long train of cars darted and thundered.  Mr. Paul Murray, the first proprietor of the estate, and father of the present owner, had early in life spent much time in France, where, espousing the royalist cause, his sympathies were fully enlisted by the desperate daring of Charette, Stofflet, and Cathelineau.  On his return to his native land, his admiration of the heroism of those who dwelt upon the Loire, found expression in one of their sobriquets, “Le Bocage,” which he gave to his country residence; and certainly the venerable groves that surrounded it justified the application.  While his own fortune was handsome and abundant, he married the orphan of a rich banker, who survived her father only a short time and died leaving Mr. Murray childless.  After a few years, when the frosts of age fell upon his head, he married a handsome and very wealthy widow; but, unfortunately, having lost their first child, a daughter, he lived only long enough to hear the infantile prattle of his son, St. Elmo, to whom he bequeathed an immense fortune, which many succeeding years of reckless expenditure had failed to materially impair.  Such was “Le Bocage,” naturally a beautiful situation, improved and embellished with everything which refined taste and world-wide travel could suggest to the fastidious owner.  Notwithstanding the countless charms of the home so benevolently offered to her, the blacksmith’s granddaughter was conscious of a great need, scarcely to be explained, yet fully felt—­the dreary lack of that which she had yet to learn could not be purchased by the treasures of Oude—­the priceless peace and genial glow which only the contented, happy hearts of its inmates can diffuse over even a palatial homestead.  She also realized, without analyzing the fact, that the majestic repose and boundless spontaneity of nature yielded a sense of companionship almost of tender, dumb sympathy, which all the polished artificialities and recherche arrangements of man utterly