However, he can't marry just yet, even if his Rosebud were willing; so he is fain to make the best of it.

In the meanwhile, he comes here pretty often for a day or two at a time to--fish.

Ha ha ha ha!" "Are he and the pretty girl engaged, Mr.Boythorn ?" asked Ada.
"Why, my dear Miss Clare," he returned, "I think they may perhaps understand each other; but you will see them soon, I dare say, and I must learn from you on such a point--not you from me." Ada blushed, and Mr.Boythorn, trotting forward on his comely grey horse, dismounted at his own door and stood ready with extended arm and uncovered head to welcome us when we arrived.
He lived in a pretty house, formerly the parsonage house, with a lawn in front, a bright flower-garden at the side, and a well-stocked orchard and kitchen-garden in the rear, enclosed with a venerable wall that had of itself a ripened ruddy look.

But, indeed, everything about the place wore an aspect of maturity and abundance.

The old lime-tree walk was like green cloisters, the very shadows of the cherry-trees and apple-trees were heavy with fruit, the gooseberry-bushes were so laden that their branches arched and rested on the earth, the strawberries and raspberries grew in like profusion, and the peaches basked by the hundred on the wall.