had passed two years in England, and, because her father
was a prosperous man who humored her slightest wishes, she occasionally
returned to take her pleasure in what she called the Old Country. It
is a far cry from the snowy heights of the Pacific slope to the
pleasant valleys of the North Country, but in these days of
quadruple-expansion engines, distance counts but little when one has
sufficient money.

The Atlantic express had brought Helen and her aunt by marriage, Mrs.
Thomas P. Savine, into Montreal, whence a fast train had conveyed them
to New York in time to catch a big Southampton liner, but Mrs. Savine
was a restless lady, and had grown tired of London within six weeks
from the day she left Vancouver. She was an American, and took pains
to impress the fact upon anybody who mistook her for a Canadian, and,
finding a party of her countrymen and women, whom she had hoped to
overtake in the metropolis, had departed northwards, she determined to
follow them to the English lakes.

"It's a big, hot, dusty wilderness, Tom, and we've seen all they've got
to show us here before," she said to her long-suffering husband, as she
stood in the vestibule of a fashionable hotel. "Say, we'll pull out
to-day and catch the Schroeders' party meditating around Wordsworth's
tomb. Young man, will you kindly get us a railroad schedule?"

The silver-buttoned official, who watched the big plate-glass door,
started at a smart rap on his shoulder, and blinked at the angular lady
in a startling costume and a blue veil. Thomas Savine interposed
meekly:

"A time-table; and that's evidently not the man to ask, my dear."

"Then he can tell the right one," Mrs. Savine answered airily, and
presently halted before a row of resplendently-gilded books adorning
one portion of the vestibule. She thereupon explained for the benefit
of all listeners that it was hard to see the necessity for so many
railways in so small a country, and finally, with a clerk's assistance,
selected a train which would deposit her at Oxenholme, from which place
the official suggested that she might find means of transport into the
district in which, to the best of his belief, Coleridge and Wordsworth,
or one of them, wrote what Mrs. Savine entitled charming little pieces.
It proved good counsel, and two of the party passed a delightful week
at Ambleside, where their sojourn was marred only by Mrs. Savine's
laments that potatoes were not served at supper and bre