It was nearly eleven o'clock when Rhoda came up the quiet country road and
turned in at the iron gates. It was a delightful day, the first real day
of spring. Though no leaves were yet on the trees, ruddy brown buds just
ready for bursting clothed every branch. And the grass along the hedges
was starred with celandines and daisies, while yellow catkins sprinkled
the bushes above them. A blackbird was singing loudly as Rhoda passed the
big chestnut trees by the gate, and a squirrel darted down from a fir and
scurried across the drive to hide himself in the little wood. Rhoda waited
a moment, hoping for another glimpse of the bright-eyed little fellow. She
was a child still in her delight in small animals, and this visit to
Woodcote was a great treat to her. She loved the country as only
country-bred people forced to live in a big town can love it. And this
sweet English countryside, with its breezy uplands and smiling pastures,
seemed more beautiful to her than even her dear Australia.
She drew a breath of delighted admiration when she came out on the lawn
and saw the old house with its beds of tulips before it flaming in the
sun. It was such a house as she had read of but had never seen, a haunt of
ancient peace, time-worn, yet smiling still, its walls mellowed by the
sunshine of many a hundred summers.
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