There were no superfluous hedges upon Mr.Whitelaw's dominions; not a solitary tree to give shelter to the tired cattle in the long hot summer days.

Noble old oaks and patriarch beeches, tall sycamores and grand flowering chestnuts, had been stubbed up remorselessly by that economical agriculturist; and he was now the proud possessor of one of the ugliest and most profitable farms in Hampshire.
In front of the gray-stone house the sheep browsed up to the parlour windows, and on both sides of the ill-kept carriage-drive leading from the white gate that opened into the meadow to the door of Mr.Whitelaw's abode.

No sweet-scented woodbine or pale monthly roses beautified the front of the house in spring or summer time.

The neglected ivy had overgrown one end of the long stone building and crept almost to the ponderous old chimneys; and this decoration, which had come of itself, was the only spot of greenery about the place.

Five tall poplars grew in a row about a hundred yards from the front windows; these, strange to say, Mr.Whitelaw had suffered to remain.