Dr. Strickland and his pupil had been fairly ensconced, and for some time past settled in the pretty, sunny rooms in the south wing of the manor house. All the windows of the lower suite opened to the ground, and overlooked and led into a Dutch flower garden, which, in accordance with its name, was laid out in formal walks with high box borders on each side, and stiffly-shaped flower beds of poppies, and tulips, and marigolds, and clusters of monkshood, and the tall white lilies of France, edged round with thyme and sweet basil. In the soft green turf, were planted evergreen trees, which were cut and clipped into fantastic shapes of peacocks, and pyramids, and cubes, and swans, and other devices. Here and there were clumps of holly and yew, from the midst of which some fawn or dryad, some Hebe or Flora, in Italian marble, had long kept watch. Then there were the old cedars of Lebanon, with seats encircling their great trunks, the ends of their long branches lying on the grass, offering beneath them, rest and shade at any hour of the day. The western side of the garden terminated in what was known as Lady Dorothy's walk. A straight, long, gravel walk, bordered on either side by a few feet of soft turf, and an avenue of yew trees two centuries old. The small closely-growing foliage of these trees was so dense that it formed a perpetual green wall, effectually shutting out all the world, with the exception of the sun at noonday, and the stars and moon at night. At the head of the walk was a sundial, and at the further end a fountain. Not a great, noisy, conspicuous construction, suggestive of the rush and turmoil of life, drowning in its splash all the sweet sounds of bird and bee, and the marvelous music of nature, but a pure, gentle, dainty little fountain, the sound of whose crystal drops, so full of soothing and tenderness, fell upon the ear like the voice of the one we love. Near the fountain was a rustic seat from which one might look across the park with its forest trees, its green undulations, and its lake, and still further away westward to the purple Welsh mountains. In every way this was a beautiful garden, a place to dream of, and live, and love, and die in.

Springtime had come, and Cecil and his tutor were sitting in their study, looking out at the linnets flitting about the garden, and at the primroses and blue violets which grew in front of the windows. The lessons of the day were over, and the Doctor was pursuing his favorite amusement, namely, drawing mathematical deductions, and coming to logical conclusions upon all matters. Although he was a ripe scholar, he would frequently forget himself, and break out in his strong Scotch accent; but that signified nothing, as Cecil perfectly understood his speech, and the family all liked him, for they knew he was a good man and greatly interested in the well-doing of his pupil.

"Ye had a lang walk wi' your cousin this morning," said the Doctor. "I hope ye understand her better than ye did."

"I am not sure that I do," answered Cecil. "I don't see why she moves so quickly and is always well; I don't like people who are always well, they cannot feel for others."

"Ye should no say that, Cecil, when ye look at your aunt; she's no invalid, but she gi'es up her life for the sak' o' others. Did ye ken that these verra rooms are the anes she likes most, the anes she lived in till we came, and she gave them up that ye might enjoy the best she had to offer?"

"O yes, I know that," said Cecil. "My aunt is very kind, but I was not thinking of her when I spoke, I was thinking of Cousin Anna; she runs so fast and when she is not singing, she is laughing, and I don't believe she has any nerves, for the other day my pony got a stone in his shoe, and she was off hers in a moment, seized my pony's fetlock and snatching up something in the road, knocked out the stone and mounted in less time than I have taken to tell you. Now none of the young ladies in India would take a pony's fetlock in their hand, so I think Cousin Anna cannot possess nerves."

"In one respect ye are right," said the Doctor, "Such a young leddie as ony o' those we used to see in India, would ride on and leave ye, and when she got home, she would tell one of the servants to tell some one of the other servants to see aboot it, and when they had passed the order through half a dozen, in the course of a few hours perhaps one of them would be with you, and, in the meantime, she would be lying on the sofa, with Shastri standing by, fanning her out of her nervous shock."

"But think of the first day I rode with my cousin, she surprised me so when she picked up my whip, I thought then she had no nerves."

"Admitting such a statement to be true," replied the Doctor, "which we are by nae means sure of, for the truth has no been logically proved, I say, admitting that it be true, is it no' a gude thing for ye that your cousin has nae nerrves, if ye are to gang aboot drapping things that ye dar' na pick up again. In the sense that ye appear to desire your cousin to hae nerrves, I dinna ken mysel' what use they wad be to a young leddie wi' a speerit such as she has. I wad no' wish to see a lassie o' her years hae nerrves; na, na, she wad no hae ony use for them; Providence kens what is guide for us a', and will send her the nerrves when she is fit to manage them."

"Still I don't see," said Cecil, "why she is not frightened sometimes. Perhaps she may be, but if so she will never say so; I don't think a girl ought to be so fearless."

"Perhaps ye dinna ken that young leddies o' her rank in England are all educated in that way. The English hae this proverb amang them. 'A well-born woman is ever brave.' Your cousin inherits her courage a long way back, she is no mongrel born; I wish ye to see for yourself, Cecil, that it is a gude thing to be brave. There are mony ways o' showing it beside being a soldier or a sailor." And then the Doctor dropped his Scotch accent and spoke slowly, "We ought to be brave enough to do our duty to others," said he. "And now I will give you six reasons for being brave for the sake of those we love. Firstly, brave that we may inspire them, with courage when their hearts are weary. Secondly, brave that we may be patient and gentle when their nerves demand rest. Thirdly brave that we may be kind and diligent and loving when they are sick. Fourthly, brave that we may not be morbid and gloomy and thus depress them. Fifthly, brave that we may be faithful and true in all things. Sixthly, brave that we may endure without murmuring to the end."

Long after the Doctor had left the room, Cecil was still there, leaning his head against the side of the window and thinking over this conversation. He possessed a generous disposition, and could not bear the idea of having misjudged his cousin. But he was of a sensitive temperament and not having a robust constitution, the girl's gaiety of spirit and great vital energy fatigued him. The cousins continued their amusements and their studies steadily together for the next two years, and although Cecil still called Anna as wild as a hawk, yet he never got into any serious difficulty, but he applied to her to help him out of it, whether it was in solving a problem or otherwise; carrying out Dr. Strickland's teaching he appeared to feel that his strength lay with her and she in her turn was rejoiced to help him.

There are natures which seem made to help others, they find their greatest happiness in it; and so it was with Anna, the more he needed her help the more she delighted in giving it. Cecil's health was greatly improved by the climate of England, and with stronger health came stronger nerves. He now no longer thought his cousin without them, but he thought she knew how to control them; in fact, they had grown to love each other with that certain kind of cousinly affection which one often sees, and which is very true and lifelong, but has not the rapture, the intensity, nor the anguish, which belong to really falling in love.

It was a day in sweet summer time, all roses and beauty, when the young people met as usual in Lady Dorothy's walk; it was their favorite place, and here they would ramble up and down, and sit by the fountain, and talk, and paint, and read for hours together; and the next day it was the same thing, and the next, and the next, for they never grew tired of the place, or of each other. They were now pacing the long walk, and although they were past the age of eighteen, they still continued their studies, but were permitted to select them.

"What a pleasant thing it is, Cecil, to follow out one's own life and study what we wish," said Anna. "I am so glad to be free, no more construing sentences, no more conjugating verbs, no more solving problems; I always hated all of that dry stuff."

"What are you going to do, then," inquired Cecil.

"Firstly, I shall spend more time with my mother, more time in the study of my music, and read all the poetry I wish to, and ride on horseback, and dance, and, of course, help my mother more in taking care of the peasantry."

"Now, Cecil, what shall you do?"

"Firstly, I think I shall paint, and rove about among this beautiful scenery," he replied. "I shall paint until I feel sure that I shall take the first prize in the grand exhibition; I will not exhibit one stroke of my brush until then."

"Well done, Cecil," said Anna, "that is the spirit I like."

For she knew as she looked at him, that he possessed a wealth which no money can buy, a soul full of poetry, a mind full of genius, the elements of true greatness in any art, and the only wealth that she valued.

And Cecil went on with his painting, and progressed, and brought more depth of tone and beauty into his pictures with every fresh attempt, till the canvas seemed to live under his hand, and his poetic soul and gentle nature spoke through his art. When any difficulty presented itself, he would always seek Anna and have her near him, not that she was an artist, but from some cause he could paint his best when she was by; indeed they were together the greater part of the time, for if they began the day in their different parts of the house, by some chance they either found each other in the library, or Lady Dorothy's walk, long before noon. They drifted to the same place, they scarcely knew how, but they began to know that the presence of each one to the other, was equally essential to their happiness. Cecil was a poet, not a writer of rhymes or jingles, but as we have said a true poet in his soul. Anna felt this in all her intercourse with him and heard it in the tones of his voice when he spoke, a voice that had a ring in it, a resonance, and that exquisite power of modulation which says more than the words themselves. And so time went swiftly and sweetly by with their walks and rides, and occupations, until they were twenty years old. Anna happy in the possession of Cecil's love, with life as she wished it, pure, joyous life, with music and beauty everywhere. A song ever on her lips, the happiest, merriest maiden in all "Merrie England."

Cecil in his gentle way, deriving extreme pleasure from the study and exercise of his art, and Anna's companionship. For the cousinly affection of two years ago, had in both of them merged into deep intense love, which ended only with their lives.