It is three miles long
and has hardly a shabby house in it, while for a mile or two the houses
upon one side, locally called "the Ridge," are unusually line, large,
and costly. They are all surrounded with well-kept gardens and
separated from the street by velvet lawns which need scarcely fear
comparison with the emerald wonders which centuries of care have
wrought from the turf of England. The house of which we have seen one
room was one of the best upon this green and park-like thoroughfare.
The gentleman who was sitting by the fire was Mr. Arthur Farnham. He
was the owner and sole occupant of the large stone house--a widower of
some years' standing, although he was yet young. His parents had died
in his childhood. He had been an officer in the army, had served
several years upon the frontier, had suffered great privations, had
married a wife much older than himself, had seen her die on the Plains
from sheer want, though he had more money than he could get
transportation for; and finally, on the death of his grandfather he had
resigned, with reluctance, a commission which had brought him nothing
but suffering and toil, and had returned to Buffland, where he was
born, to take charge of the great estate of which he was the only heir.
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