Our coming to the ridge of a hill we had been ascending enabled our friend to point out Chesney Wold itself to us and diverted his attention from its master.
It was a picturesque old house in a fine park richly wooded. Among the trees and not far from the residence he pointed out the spire of the little church of which he had spoken. Oh, the solemn woods over which the light and shadow travelled swiftly, as if heavenly wings were sweeping on benignant errands through the summer air; the smooth green slopes, the glittering water, the garden where the flowers were so symmetrically arranged in clusters of the richest colours, how beautiful they looked! The house, with gable and chimney, and tower, and turret, and dark doorway, and broad terrace-walk, twining among the balustrades of which, and lying heaped upon the vases, there was one great flush of roses, seemed scarcely real in its light solidity and in the serene and peaceful hush that rested on all around it. To Ada and to me, that above all appeared the pervading influence. On everything, house, garden, terrace, green slopes, water, old oaks, fern, moss, woods again, and far away across the openings in the prospect to the distance lying wide before us with a purple bloom upon it, there seemed to be such undisturbed repose.
When we came into the little village and passed a small inn with the sign of the Dedlock Arms swinging over the road in front, Mr. Boythorn interchanged greetings with a young gentleman sitting on a bench outside the inn-door who had some fishing-tackle lying beside him.

On our coming to the ridge of a hill, our friend pointed out Chesney Wold. It was a picturesque old house in a fine park richly wooded, with the spire of the little church nearby.
Oh, the solemn woods over which the light and shadow travelled swiftly, as if heavenly wings were sweeping through the summer air; the smooth green slopes, the glittering water, the garden full of the richest colours, how beautiful they looked! The house, with gable and chimney, and tower and turret, and broad terrace-walk, with a great flush of roses twining among its balustrades, seemed scarcely real in the serene and peaceful hush. That struck me above all. On everything, house, garden, terrace, woods, there seemed to be such undisturbed repose.
We came into the little village and passed a small inn with the sign of the Dedlock Arms swinging over it. Mr. Boythorn exchanged greetings with a young gentleman sitting on a bench outside the inn, with fishing-tackle lying beside him.
