Atherstone was a rambling, old-fashioned, black-and-white house, half covered with ivy, standing in a rambling, old-fashioned garden--a charming garden, with clipped yews, and grass paths, and straggling flowers and herbs growing up in unexpected places.

In front of the house, facing the drawing-room windows, was a bowling-green, across which, at this time of the afternoon, the house had laid a cool green shadow.
Two ladies were sitting under its shelter, each with her work.
It was hot still, but the shadows were deepening and lengthening.

Away in the sun hay was being made and carried, with crackings of whips and distant voices.

Beyond the hay-fields lay the silver band of the river, and beyond again the spire of Slumberleigh Church, and a glimpse among the trees of Slumberleigh Hall.
"Ralph has started in the dog-cart to meet Charles.

They ought to be here in half an hour, if the train is punctual," said Mrs.Ralph.
She was a graceful woman, with a placid, gentle face.