He was ever fond of wandering about the estate alone, and often took solitary walks on bright nights with his stout stick tapping before him.

On rare occasions, however, when, in the absence of her ladyship, he enjoyed the company of pretty Gabrielle, they would wander in the park arm-in-arm, chatting and exchanging confidences.
The departure of their house-party had lifted a heavy weight from both their hearts.

It would be dawn before they returned.

She loved her father, and was never happier than when describing to him things--the smallest objects sometimes--which he himself could not see.
As they strolled on beneath the shadows of the tall elms, the stillness of the night was broken only by the quick scurry of a rabbit into the tall bracken or the harsh cry of some night-bird startled by their approach.
Before them, standing black against the night-sky, rose the quaint, ponderous, but broken walls of the ancient stronghold, where an owl hooted weirdly in the ivy, and where the whispering of the waters rose from the deep below.
"It's a pity, dear, that you didn't go to the dance," the old man was saying, her arm held within his own.

"You've annoyed your mother, I fear." "Mother is quite happy with her guests, dad; while I am quite happy with you," she replied softly.