There was the cipher "L.

L.B." formed in gold beds, and surrounded with an oval wreath embroidered in white silk.

These were the initials of my godmother's name--Lonisa Lucy Bretton.
"Am I in England?
Am I at Bretton ?" I muttered; and hastily pulling up the blind with which the lattice was shrouded, I looked out to try and discover _where_ I was; half-prepared to meet the calm, old, handsome buildings and clean grey pavement of St.Ann's Street, and to see at the end the towers of the minster: or, if otherwise, fully expectant of a town view somewhere, a rue in Villette, if not a street in a pleasant and ancient English city.
I looked, on the contrary, through a frame of leafage, clustering round the high lattice, and forth thence to a grassy mead-like level, a lawn-terrace with trees rising from the lower ground beyond--high forest-trees, such as I had not seen for many a day.

They were now groaning under the gale of October, and between their trunks I traced the line of an avenue, where yellow leaves lay in heaps and drifts, or were whirled singly before the sweeping west wind.

Whatever landscape might lie further must have been flat, and these tall beeches shut it out.