CHAPTER VII.
relating how a london gentleman appeared in
redman's dell.
There is, near the Hall, a pretty glen, called Redman's
Dell, very steep, with a stream running at the bottom of
it, but so thickly wooded that in summer you can only
now and then catch a glimpse of the water gliding beneath
you. Deep in this picturesque ravine, buried among the
shadows of tall old trees, runs the narrow mill-road,
which lower down debouches on the end of the village
street. There, in the transparent green shadow, stand
the two mills—the old one with A. D. 1679, and the
Wylder arms, and the eternal "resurgam" projecting
over its doors; and higher up, on a sort of platform, the
steep bank rising high behind it, with its towering old
wood overhanging and surrounding, stands an old and small
two-storied brick and timber house; and though the sun
does not often glimmer on its windows, it possesses an air
of sad, old-world comfort — a little flower-garden lies in
front, with a paling round it. But not every kind of flowers
will grow there, under the lordly shadow of the elms and
chestnuts.
This sequestered tenement bears the name of Redman's
Farm; and its occupant was that Miss Lake whom I had
met last night at Brandon Hall, and whose pleasure it was
to live here in independent isolation.
There she is now, busy in her tiny garden, with the
birds twittering about her, and the yellow leaves falling;
and her thick gauntlets on her slender hands. This young
lady's little Eden, though encompassed with the solemn