Everything was large connected with the Hall and estate. There were no finer trees anywhere in England than those sturdy oaks and elms, no more stately waving pine trees, and no more shady drooping limes than those that bordered the broad grass ride which stretched for many a mile across the estate. On the park-like lawn in front of the house--if this ancient quaint old pile could be said to have a front--the flower-beds were as big as suburban gardens, the statuary, the fountains, and even the gray and moss-grown dial-stone were gigantic; and nowhere else in all this vast and wealthy county were such stately herons seen as those that sailed around Grantley and built in its trees. The entrance-hall was spacious and noble, though the porch was comparatively small; but if divested of its banners and curtains and emptied of its antique furniture, its wealth-laden tables, on which jewelled arms and curios from every land under the sun seemed to have been laid out for show, its oaken chests, its sideboards, its organ and many another musical instrument ancient and modern, the drawing-room was large enough to have driven a coach-and-four around.
The bedrooms above were many of them so lofty that in the dead, dull winter two great fires in each could hardly keep them warm.
The room in which the girls sat was the tartan boudoir. The walls were draped with clan tartans, and eke the lounges and chairs; while the heads of many a royal stag adorned the walls, amidst tastefully displayed claymores, spears, shields, and dirks, and pistols.
"Just two years, Gerty. How quickly the time has fled!"
"Just two years, Flora. Strange that I should have been thinking about Jack this very moment. But then you were playing one of Jack's favourite airs, you know."
Flora got up from her seat at the harp. A tall and graceful girl she was, with a wealth of auburn hair, and blue dreamy eyes, and eyelashes that swept her sun-tinted cheeks when she looked downwards.
She got up from her seat, and went and knelt beside the couch on which Gerty was lounging with a book.
"Why strange, sister?" she asked, taking Gerty's hand.
Gerty was _petite_, blonde, bewitching--so many a young man said, and many a rough old squire as well. She was no baby in face, however. Although of the purest type of Saxon beauty--without the square chin that so disfigures many an otherwise lovely English face--there was fire and character in every lineament of Gerty Keane's countenance.