It was Mr. Curtis’ intention to have two avenues to his house.  One of them wound around by the lake past the spot which he had marked out for a boat-house, and then through the chestnut grove, where it met the other avenue.

The other or main avenue, entered the grounds just between two immense elm-trees which almost seemed to have been stationed there for guards, so exactly did they suit their position.  Underneath the branches which met and embraced, the handsome granite posts with a heavy iron gate, were to mark the main entrance to Woodlawn.  The wall which was to enclose the grounds was to be built of gray pudding-stone, tightly cemented, with a hewn granite curb-stone.  The road, which was to be nicely trenched and gravelled, wound through a variety of shade-trees to the highest point of land, where the view of the house, lawn and lake burst upon the eye of the visitor.

When Mr. Curtis was, in after years, complimented by his friends for the taste and artistic skill with which he had laid out his grounds, he always pointed to his wife, saying, ­

“There is the artist.  I only followed her suggestions.”

It was true that though the lady was opposed to building a house that would be grand and imposing, she was desirous of improving to the utmost the natural beauties which surrounded them.  She drew a plan for the boat-house, which was not only useful, but extremely picturesque.  The hennery too, and the conservatory, were highly ornamental, distributed as they were about the grounds; ­but it is too early to speak of these, which were not finished till another year.

I must go back and tell you about Bertie’s visit to Woodlawn, and how he learned to make trenches.

Directly after family prayers, which Mr. Curtis always attended with the farmer’s family, Bertie read a chapter in his small Bible with his mamma; and she explained the meaning to him in such simple words that even little Winnie could learn something of God’s will.  Sometimes they sung a hymn; and then the little fellow started off with his donkey for the new house.

If he were going to be there several hours, he used to take the harness from Whitefoot and turn him into a field where he could find plenty of sweet, tender grass.  But when he expected to return in an hour or two, he left the creature standing under the shade of a tree.

When he drove through the field on this pleasant afternoon, he did not forget that he had promised Jerry a ride.  He jumped out of the carriage, and looked about; but the boy was nowhere to be seen.  He tied Whitefoot to the tree and ran to the cellar.  The stone-masons were at their work.  One side of the wall was nearly completed, and at this moment they were hammering away to get a large stone ready to fit into its place.

“Do you know where my papa is?” he asked one of the masons.

“He’s gone off to the lake with Tom Grant.”

“Is Tom coming back with his oxen?”

“Yes, I heard him driving them by a few minutes ago.  He’ll be back presently.”

“Thank you, sir.  May I go there and see you work till he comes?”

“Yes, I’m willing.  The Squire is the owner here.”

Bertie ran around by the bulkhead and soon was standing by the stonelayer in the cellar.  He didn’t speak until they had finished lifting the heavy stone into its place.  He stood and watched them, wondering whether he should ever be strong enough to lift so much.

“I don’t think I should like to be a stone-mason,” he said, in a sympathizing tone.

“Well, you may have to come to it for all that,” the man answered, speaking very cross.

“Don’t snap up the boy so; he meant no harm,” urged the other.  “Here, my little fellow, will you take a quid of tobacco?” at the same time putting a piece in his own mouth.

“Thank you, sir, but I never eat any tobacco.  Mamma says it makes people crave drink; and then they become drunkards.”

The cross mason uttered a shocking oath, in connection with the name of Mrs. Curtis, and started forward with his trowel as if he were about to strike the boy.

Bertie uttered a cry as though he had been shot.  The awful words were the most dreadful he had ever heard.  He, tried to run away, but he staggered, and looked so pale the man who had offered him the tobacco, thought he would fall.

“Don’t mind him,” Alick said to Bertie, “he’s been to his bottle too often, and didn’t know what he was talking of.”

About fifteen minutes later, Mr. Curtis found his son, sitting on a stone near the cellar, crying and sobbing as if his heart would break.

It was a very unusual thing for Bertie to cry; and of course his papa was greatly pained to see him in such distress.  He tried to soothe the child and find out what had troubled him.  But Bertie could scarcely speak at all for his sobs.  He could only point to the cellar, and say, in broken words ­“Wicked ­man ­I’m ­afraid ­God ­wont ­let ­him ­live.”

Mr. Curtis left him and walked toward the cellar, where he saw a sight which explained his son’s grief.

One of the masons was just in the act of stooping down for a black bottle which he held to his mouth, when his companion saw him.

“Hold there,” he said, throwing down his hammer.  “You’ve been at it too often already.”

The drunkard threw the empty bottle right in the other mason’s face, uttering the most terrible oaths.

“You’d better be careful; or you’ll lose the best job you ever had,” urged the sober man.  “You frightened the Squire’s little boy till I thought he would faint.  If he tells his father how you cursed his mother, you’ll be done for.  So you’d better quit drinking till this job is over.”