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MacDonald, George, 1824-1905

"Warlock o' Glenwarlock"

There all lay
careless of the present, hopeless of the future, and hardly
dreaming of the past. It was long since foot of lady had pressed
these ancient paths, long since laugh or merry speech had been
heard in them. Nothing is lovelier than the result of the
half-neglect which often falls upon portions of great grounds, when
the owner's fancy has changed, and his care has turned to some
newer and more favoured spot; when there is moss on the walks, but
the weeds are few and fine; when the trees stand in their old
honour, yet no branch is permitted to obstruct a path; when flowers
have ceased to be sown or planted, but those that bloom are not
disregarded; while yet it is only through some stately door that
admission is gained, and no chance foot is free to stray in. But
here it was altogether different. That stage of neglect was long
past. The place was ragged, dirty, overgrown. There was between the
picture I have drawn and this reality, all the painful difference
between stately and beautiful matronhood, and the old age that, no
longer capable of ministering to its own decencies, has grown
careless of them.
"At this time of the day there is plenty of sun here." said his
nurse, in a tone that seemed to savour of apology.
"I think," said Cosmo, "the gardener told me some parts of the
grounds were better kept than this."
"Yes," answered Joan, "but none of them are anything like what they
should be.


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