I found Maythorn Lodge all and more than I either desired or expected. It was called a lodge, but it was in reality a very substantial and well-built family residence, about two miles on the Finchley Road.  
The great tidal wave of bricks and mortar which has since flooded the green fields of Finchley was yet far away, and the country round about my new master’s home was very beautiful—almost as beautiful as the place where I spent the first days of my life. London was not far away it is true; but we had green trees on one side to shut out the view of the dismal smoke, and from the other the wind came over Hampstead Heath, bearing on its bosom the untainted perfume of green meadows and sweet fields. I had a small, well-kept stable for a residence, and all my wants were attended to by a lad of fourteen years of age, who in addition to this helped the gardener in his work. A few words in passing respecting this boy. I gathered from what I heard that he had been originally one 70of the ragged unfortunates of the London streets, and that Mr. Graham had taken him home as an experiment, to see what could be done with those wretched outcasts. The experiment was on the whole satisfactory. The boy—who went by the name of Roberts—was devotedly attached to his master, and although he had bickerings with the other servants, especially with the gardener, who most injudiciously cast reflections upon his origin, he was on the whole a well-conducted youth. For my own part, I must say he was an excellent lad to me, and we became very much attached to each other.
 
Mr. Graham and his daughter were the only members of the household at home; but there was a son at college, who, as far as reports were concerned, was a very fine dashing young fellow—an object of great interest to all in Maythorn Lodge. Miss Graham was, as her father had declared, a great invalid. It was in the month of May that I took up my residence at the Lodge, and the weather, warm and balmy as it was, seemed to be too keen for the delicate frame. I remember her appearing at the door as I drew up, with her fragile form wrapped up in cloaks and furs, as if there were no sun shining in the heavens, and the keen cutting blasts of winter were sweeping up from the adjoining heath. Her face was beautiful, and there was a colour upon her cheeks which rivalled the blush on a May-born rose; her eyes—blue, clear, and thoughtful—were in harmony with the rich mass of golden hair which clustered o’er her forehead, and fell in masses over her shoulders. But beneath it all there lay something indefinable, something without a name, which told me that the young life was fleeting. I read this in her face, and I saw it plainer in the tender solicitude of the father, and the anxious, sorrowful look he wore when her face was turned from his. She came down, and before getting into the carriage stroked me upon the neck. The touch, feather-like as it was, sent a thrill through my frame—it was different to anything I had known for years.
 
‘It is an old horse,’ said Mr. Graham, ‘but a very quiet one. You want air more than exercise, Nellie dear.’
 
‘It is a very nice horse, and will suit me,’ she said quietly.
 
Then they got into the carriage.
 
I felt by the touch that Miss Graham was driving me—a little experience soon tells a horse who is behind him; and we soon entered u............