26 A SPORTSMAN'S EDEN. 



home, which you cannot take ' naturally ' in one 

 or other of the waters of Saratoga. Take my 

 advice, dear a little champagne of a good brand 

 is better, and does you more good than any of 

 them. 



But, after all, the best of Saratoga was a 

 certain evening walk we took when we arrived. 

 The road (I don't know its name) led out of 

 town, was very, very broad, and all along each 

 side of it ran a line of pretty detached bungalows 

 (that is what I should call them, at least), low 

 houses, with fanciful roofs and irregular outlines, 

 with large porches, smothered with flowers, and 

 standing, as often as not, in unfenced gardens 

 reaching down to the trottoirs. All the windows 

 were ablaze with light ; pretty pictures of squire 

 and dame, of girls singing at pianos, of all the 

 phases of home life, glanced past as you walked 

 along too. public for your eyes to avoid them, 

 too private for your good taste to allow you to 

 dwell upon them. The night was so beautiful, 

 the light so bright, the tree-frogs even so musical 

 in the trees, that the only thing like it which I 

 remember is the opening scene in Mrs. Praed's 

 novel, ' Moloch.' I am sorry I ever saw Saratoga 

 by daylight, for, in my case, daylight brought 

 disenchantment. And now, Lena, good-bye. Our 

 party has just broken up. Even Mr. Shamus's 



