ome
fine day, and then he shall raise the family again to its proper level.'

CHAPTER II

IN THE PARK

Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother.--BEN JONSON.

The dew lay upon the grass the next morning, and the eastern rays of the
rising sun had but just shot across the slopes of Penshurst Park, when
Philip Sidney passed from under the great gateway of the noble house--or
castle, for it was embattled, by the king's leave, in the reign of Edward
IV,--and crossed the turf towards the avenue of beeches now clothed in the
tenderest hues of spring.

He was at this time in high favour at Court. The cloud which his brave
protest against the Queen's marriage with the Duke of Anjou had cast over
him had passed away, and he was again the favourite on whom Elizabeth
smiled, and from whom she expected and received due homage. But the
perpetual demands made by Elizabeth on her admiring courtiers was often
felt to be irksome.

The chains might be silken, but they were, nevertheless, binding, and it
was a relief to Philip Sidney to escape from the atmosphere of the Court at
times, to breathe the pure air of his home in the fair land of Kent.

Penshurst Place was, and is, one of the most beautiful of the stately homes
of England.

On this April morning the long _facade_ was smiling in the early rays of
the sun, and, as Philip crossed the Park he turned, and, looking back at
it, felt stirring within him that pride of race and home, which is perhaps
one of the strongest points in the character of a well-born Englishman.

'A fair inheritance, doubtless,' he said. 'All things are fair save where
sin and wrong enters. Why should my good Languet have grudged me my
retirement, and rejoice that I have again gone forth into the troublesome
world. 'Success at Court is dearly bought, and I must ever bear about with
me a burden which no mortal eye sees.'

As Philip Sidney paced under the shadow of the beeches, the deep bronze of
fallen leaves at his feet glowing here and there into living gold, as the
low rays of the eastern sun shone through the branches, thinly veiled, as
yet, with tender green, to any casual observer, he did not wear the
appearance of a man whose heart knew any bitterness or was weighted with
any burden.

His light figure, with its easy swing as he walked, the perfect symmetry of
every limb, the pose of his well-shaped head, from which he had removed the
small cap with its short plume, raising his face that