On another wall were three small prints, landscapes where there were great distances with much light and warmth.

Over his bed hung an artist's conception of "Lorna Doone," a beautiful face, framed in a mass of auburn hair, with smiling lips, and a dreamy look in her eyes.
"That's my girl," Dorian sometimes said, pointing to this picture.

"No one can take her from me; we never quarrel; and she never scolds or frowns." On another wall hung a portrait of his father, who had been dead nine years.

His father had been a teacher with a longing to be a farmer.
Eventually, this longing had been realized in the purchase of the twenty acres in Greenstreet, at that time a village with not one street which could be called green, and without a sure water supply for irrigation, at least on the land which would grow corn and potatoes and wheat.

To be sure, there was water enough of its kind down on the lower slopes, besides saleratus and salt grass and cattails and the tang of marshlands in the air.