Something like an estate!
"What's the name of that place?" cried Peer, gazing at it.
"Loreng."
"And who owns it?"
"Don't know," answered the girl, cracking her whip.
Next moment the horse turned in to the avenue, and Peer caught
involuntarily at the reins. "Hei! Brownie--where are you going?" he
cried.
"Why not go up and have a look?" said Merle.
"But we were going out to look at your father's place."
"Well, that is father's place."
Peer stared at her face and let go the reins. "What? What? You don't
mean to say your father owns that place there?"
A few minutes later they were strolling through the great, low-ceiled
rooms. The whole house was empty now, the farm-bailiff living in the
servants' quarters. Peer grew more and more enthusiastic. Here, in these
great rooms, there had been festive gatherings enough in the days of the
old Governors, where cavaliers in uniform or with elegant shirt-frills
and golden spurs had kissed the hands of ladies in sweeping silk robes.
Old mahogany, pot-pourri, convivial song, wit, grace--Peer saw it all in
his mind's eye, and again and again he had to give vent to his feelings
by seizing Merle and embracing her.
"Oh, but look here, Merle--you know, this is a fairy-tale."
They passed out into the old neglected garden with its grass-grown paths
and well-filled carp-ponds and tumble-down pavilions. Peer rushed about
it in all directions. Here, too, there had been fetes, with coloured
lamps festooned around, and couples whispering in the shade of every
bush.
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