THE CHARM OF GARDENS 



cutter may be in league with goodness knows how 

 many fairies, elves, and witches. It is a place where 

 heroes meet heroines ; where kings in disguise eat 

 humble pie ; where dukes, lost in hunting a white stag, 

 meet enchanted princesses. 



The wood, of which I speak, was once, years ago — 

 about three hundred years — part of the park of Tangle- 

 wood Court, an extensive property, an old house, a 

 great family possession. 



Gone, like last winter's snow, were the family of 

 Bois ; gone the pack ; gone the glories of the great 

 family ; gone the portraits, the armour, the very 

 windows of Tanglewood Court, of which but a fine 

 ruin remained. And the lane, a mere cart track, was 

 all that was left of the fine sweep of drive to the house ; 

 and a tangled undergrowth under ancient trees all 

 that stood for the grand avenue down which my Lord 

 Bois had once ridden so madly. They call the lane 

 Purgatory Lane, and they tell a story of wild doings 

 and of a beautiful avenue, that cannot have its place 

 here. 



The great gates that once swung open to admit the 

 carriage of Perpetua Bois (of the red hair, the full 

 voluptuous figure, the smile Sir Peter Lely painted) 

 were now two stone stumps at the feet of which two 

 slots, green and worn, showed where the hinges had 

 been. These fine gates once boasted, on the top of 

 stone pillars, the greyhounds of Bois in stone. One of 

 these dogs had been rescued from the undergrowth 

 by the woodcutter, the other lies broken and bramble- 

 covered in the wood. I wonder if they miss each other. 



So you see I was addressing myself to a high-born 

 Jacobean dog. 



This dog, very calm and dignified, with a stone tail 

 and a back worn smooth by wind and weather, sat 



W 



