The open door, and the portrait is written by Margaret O. Wilson Oliphant that begins with the English system did not commend itself to Scotland these days. There was no little Eton at Fettes, nor any genteel exotic of that class to tempt either my wife or me. It stands on a fine and wealthy slope of the country between the Pentland Hills and the Firth. In clear weather, you could see the blue gleam of the great estuary on one side, and the blue heights on the other. The village of Brentwood lay almost under the house, on the other side of the ravine. In the park which surrounded the house were the ruins of a former mansion. The story goes on with Grove, a large old house in the immediate neighborhood of a little town. It belonged to a period when the land was cheap, and there was no occasion to economize. The house was dull, and so were its last inhabitants, and the furniture was faded and dingy. The drawing room was the one place in the house where nobody ever entered.
