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over and over again—the sort of tune that one hears in dreams. We are such stuff as dreams are made of; but the dreams are very sweet sometimes, and we hardly wish to awaken.

However, just as she was on the point of giving up her quest, she met the person so anxiously looked for, coming round the corner at a sharp trot. He stopped, and a more friendly smile passed between them than had been usual of late.

“Ah, well met, Miss Lauder! I was just hoping I should see you. I have permission to see the old garden at Dunstan’s Folly, which is considered a great favour. Will you come there with me? It’s a good long way, but a charming ride, and we can be home before dark.”

Alice assented, feeling this would be a capital opportunity of delivering her message, and they rode along side by side almost in silence, for each had grave matter of consideration in mind. The place they were in quest of was often spoken of, but seldom seen by the neighbourhood. A rich Englishman, some twenty years before, had laid out an elaborate pleasure-ground in the style of the old Italian gardens, and had even laid the foundations for a great house to match, on the slope of one of the bush-covered hills, some ten or twelve miles from the village. By