There was an Italian garden, with marble benches, fawns and dryads, which was exactly like those depicted in _Country Life_: and here it was, and she was free of it! Oh, marvellous! Presently a huge deerhound, graceful as the forest from which he sprang, came bounding to her; he stopped and eyed her critically for a moment, then he came forward in stately fashion and laid his beautiful head in the hands she outstretched to him. She went down on her knees and hugged him; and he submitted to the embrace, with his great, loving eyes fixed on hers approvingly. When the big bell in one of the towers rang for breakfast the dog followed her into the little room behind the library and flung himself down at her side, as if he belonged to her.
While she was eating her breakfast Mrs. Dexter looked in, inquired how Celia had slept, cast an examining eye over the bountifully furnished table, with its gleaming silver and dainty china, and asked if Celia had everything she needed.
"Oh, yes," said Celia, with a laugh. "I have never seen such a breakfast in my life; there are so many things that I don't know which to choose."
Mrs. Dexter smiled, with an air of satisfaction. "I see you have got Roddy," she said.
At the sound of his name the big dog rose and went to the housekeeper, then returned to Celia.
"Yes; isn't he a beautiful dog?" said Celia. "We made friends outside. I am flattering myself that he has taken a fancy to me; I hope he has."
"It certainly looks like it," assented Mrs. Dexter. "He will be company for you on your walks."
"Oh, may I have him?" cried Celia, delightedly. "I've fallen passionately in love with him."
Mrs. Dexter assured her that Roddy, as well as everything in and about the place, was at Celia's service, and, explaining that she was very busy, hurried away. Immediately after breakfast Celia began her delightful work, and for the next two or three days stuck to it so persistently that Mrs. Dexter remonstrated.
"Oh, but you don't know how much I love it," pleaded Celia. "The moment I leave the library I want to get back to it. You see, I'm mad on books, and this work of mine is a labour of love; the very touch of some of these old volumes thrills me. And there are so many of them; sometimes I feel that I shall never get through my task, if I live to be ninety."