Peter stood on his own front door steps, on the shady side of the house, in the fresh air of the early morning.

The unnecessary eyeglass twinkled on his breast as he looked forth upon the goodliness and beauty of his inheritance.

The ever-encroaching green of summer had not yet overpowered the white wealth of flowering spring; for the season was a late one, and the month of June still young.
The apple-trees were yet in blossom, and the snowy orchards were scattered over the hillsides between patches of golden gorse.

The lilacs, white and purple, were in flower, amid scarlet rhododendrons and branching pink and yellow tree-azaleas.

The weeping barberry showered gold dust upon the road.
On the lower side of the drive, the rolling grass slopes were thriftily left for hay; a flowering mass of daisies, and buttercups, and red clover, and blue speedwell.
A long way off, but still clearly visible in the valley below, glistened the stone-tiled roof of the old square-towered church, guarded by its sentinel yews.
A great horse-chestnut stood like a giant bouquet of waxen bloom beside a granite monument which threw a long shadow over the green turf mounds towards the west, and marked the grave of Sir Timothy Crewys.
Peter saw that monument more plainly just now than all the rest of his surroundings, although he was short-sighted, and although his eyes were further dimmed by sudden tears.
His memories of his father were not particularly tender ones, and his grief was only natural filial sentiment in its vaguest and lightest form.