turned as soon as she had gone a sufficient distance that she might study the aspect of the house.  It did not quite fulfil her expectations; it was neither remarkable for age nor beauty; the masonry was in a sort of chessboard pattern, alternate squares of freestone and of flints, the windows were not casements as she thought they ought to have been, and the long wing, or rather excrescence, which contained the drawing-room, was by no means ornamental.  It was a respectable, comfortable mansion, and that was all that was to be said in its praise, and Beatrice’s affection had so embellished it in description, that it was no wonder that Henrietta felt slightly disappointed.  She had had some expectation, too, of seeing it in the midst of a park, instead of which the carriage-drive along which they were walking, only skirted a rather large grass field, full of elm trees, and known by the less dignified name of the paddock.  But she would not confess the failure of her expectations even to herself, and as Beatrice was evidently looking for some expressions of admiration, she said the road must be very pretty in summer.

“Especially when this bank is one forest of foxgloves,” said Queen Bee.  “Only think!  Uncle Roger and the farmer faction wanted grandpapa to have this hedge row grubbed up, and turned into a plain dead fence; but I carried the day, and I dare say Aunt Mary will be as much obliged to me as the boys who would have lost their grand preserve of stoats and rabbits.  But here are the outfield and the drill.”

And going through a small gate at the corner of the paddock, they entered a large ploughed field, traversed by a footpath raised and gravelled, so as to be high and dry, which was well for the two girls, as the gentlemen left them to march up and down there by themselves, whilst they were discussing the merits of the brilliant blue machine which was travelling along the furrows.  It was rather a trial of patience, but Beatrice was used to it, and Henrietta was in a temper to be pleased with anything.

At last the inspection was concluded, and Mr. Langford came to his granddaughters, leaving his two sons to finish their last words with Martin.

“Well, young ladies,” said he, “this is fine drilling, in patience at least.  I only wish my wheat may be as well drilled with Uncle Roger’s new-fangled machines.”

“That is right, grandpapa,” said Queen Bee; “you hate them as much as I do, don’t you now?”

“She is afraid they will make honey by steam,” said grandpapa, “and render bees a work of supererogation.”

“They are doing what they can towards it,” said Beatrice.  “Why, when Mr. Carey took us to see his hives, I declare I had quite a fellow-feeling for my poor subjects, boxed up in glass, with all their privacy destroyed.  And they won’t even let them swarm their own way—­a most unwarrantable interference with the liberty of the subject.”

“Well done, Queenie,” said Mr. Langford, laughing; “a capital champion.  And so you don’t look forward to the time when we are to have our hay made by one machine, our sheep washed by another, our turkeys crammed by a third—­ay, and even the trouble of bird-starving saved us?”