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