Michael and Sandy Patterson had just concluded these details of their busy life, when their dwelling came in sight, at the extremity of the avenue of the oaks.
It was a charming house, built of wood and brick, hidden in groves of emerophilis. Nothing at all, however, belonging to a station was visible—neither sheds, nor stables, nor cart-houses. All these out-buildings, a perfect village, comprising more than twenty huts and houses, were about a quarter of a mile off in the heart of a little valley. Electric communication was established between this village and the master’s house, which, far removed from all noise, seemed buried in a forest of exotic trees.
At Sandy Patterson’s bidding, a sumptuous breakfast was served in less than a quarter of an hour. The wines and viands were of the
