at the Royal. They were
delighted to see me again and for three days I was almost constantly in
Lady Hatton's company. During these days I learned in an easy
conversational way all that had followed "the peace that God made." No
trouble was in its sequence--only that blessing which maketh rich and
addeth no sorrow therewith.

"Yes," Lady Hatton answered to my question concerning the youths I had
seen in the church with them, "they were my boys. I have four sons. The
eldest, called John, is attending to his father's business while my
husband takes a little holiday. Stephen is studying law, and George is
preparing for the Navy; my youngest boy, Elbert, is still at Rugby."

"And your daughters?" I asked.

She smiled divinely. "Oh!" she replied. "They are such darlings! Alice
is married and Jane is married and Clara is staying with her
grandmother. She is only sixteen. She is very beautiful and Mrs. Hatton
will hardly let her leave the Hall."

"Then Mrs. Hatton is still alive?" I said.

"Yes, indeed, very much so. She will _live_ to her last moment, and
likely 'pass out of it,' as our people say, busy with heart and head and
hands."

"And what of Mrs. Harry?" I asked.

"Ah, she left us some years ago! Just faded away. For nearly two years
she knew she was dying, and was preparing her household for her loss,
yet joining as best she could in all the careless mirth of her children.
But she talked to me of what was approaching and said she often
whispered to herself, 'Another hour gone.' Dear Lucy, we all loved her.
Her children are doing well, the boys are all in Sir John's employ."

"And Mr. Harry? Does he still sing?"

"Not much since Lucy's death. But he looks after the land, and paints
and reads a great deal, and we are all very fond of Harry. His mother
must see him every day, and Sir John is nearly as foolish. Harry was
born to be loved and everyone loves him. He has gone lately to the
Church of England, but Sir John, though a member of Parliament, stands
loyally by the Methodist church."

"And you?"

"I go with Sir John in everything. I try to walk in his steps, and so
keep middling straight. Sir John lives four square, careless of outward
shows. It is years and years since I followed my own way. Sir John's
ways are wiser and better. He is always ready for the duty of the hour
and never restless as to what will come after it. Is not that a good
rule?"

"Are you on your way home now?" I asked.

"Oh, no