At the back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned terrace-garden, full of apple-trees and other fruittrees in blossom, and lively with the delicious verdure of early spring. The picturesque scoundrel had the true gift; and Spurlock was filled with pity at the thought of such genius gone to pot. There was no one at home, and I was coming away when I saw that the door was open. When she told him that the natives called her The Dawn Pearl, his delight was unbounded. The dizziness made the trees sickening, the smell of Michelle’s perfume soapy and revolting.
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