They were at the great iron gates of Rawdon Park, and soon were slowly traversing its woody solitudes.

The soft light, the unspeakable green of the turf, the voice of ancient days murmuring in the great oak trees, the deer asleep among the ferns, the stillness of the summer afternoon filling the air with drowsy peace this was the atmosphere into which they entered.

Their road through this grand park of three hundred acres was a wide, straight avenue shaded with beech trees.

The green turf on either hand was starred with primroses.

In the deep undergrowth, ferns waved and fanned each other, and the scent of hidden violets saluted as they passed.