what desolate. The country looks as though
nature had abandoned it to man, and man had
not yet accepted the trust; but as the road
advances southward, the foothills of the moun-
tains rise encouragingly before the eyes, the
country begins to roll itself-into green billows,
and in the distance, like stately sentinels, loom
the cones of the Blue Ridge.

From Orange the road to Montpellier winds
somewhat sharply uphill, through groves of
thick-growing pines, till at last it halts be-
fore an old-fashioned gateway, whose posts are
topped with the always graceful urn. Beyond
lies still another barred gate, and then the
road sweeps with a wide tranquil curve to the
foot of the steps which lead up to the broad,
pillared portico.

The Montpellier homestead is a mansion.
Before the eye has had time to take measures,
it is assured of this fact. As in all true
architecture, the proportions are so just, the
lines so simple, the scheme so dignified, that
the house needs no vast size to lend it impres-
siveness, yet even by the crude test of the
foot-rule, Montpellier is by no means insig-
nificant. Its length is a hundred and fifty
feet and its depth thirty-two feet. Part of the
length lies in the one-storied wings, which,
set back a little from the main building, ex-

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