ks. They all seem to be lingering about, with nothing to do,
and enjoying their idleness and June holiday as thoroughly as the
greatest philanthropist in the world could desire. As we approach the
entrance of the Park, we see another magnificent arch spanning the road.
We turn to the large iron gates, and they, too, are circled with laurels
and roses.

We walk through the gates, and to the right, far in amongst the trees,
are long lines of tables covered with white, and bearing the remains of
a huge feast, at which, we take it for granted, the people we have met
have been regaled. Scattered here and there amongst the oaks, elms, and
ashes are more peasants and school children amusing themselves
variously.

We pursue our way up the drive until we come to the memorable oak,
under which words were spoken greatly influencing the fates of two of
the individuals in whom I have been endeavouring to interest my readers.
From this venerable tree to another, almost as venerable, hangs another
wreath, flanked with banners. We reach the house, and another garland
entirely surrounds the door. White roses and lillies of the valley make
the air heavy with their breath, drawn out by the attractive rays of the
beaming afternoon sun.

We enter the hall, and peep into the different rooms. In the dining-room
is the remains of an ample repast. At the head of the table is an
enormous cake, covered with silver doves and ornaments of all kinds;
servants are drinking the remains of champagne out of glasses and
bottles with healths innumerable. In the library and hall, children in
white frocks, with silver bows fastened to them, pattering to and fro in
unchecked excitement. In the drawing-room we pause, and listen to the
conversation that is passing between Mr Gwynne, Lady Mary, Colonel and
Mrs Gwynne Vaughan, and Sir Hugh Pryse.

'I am so thankful it is over, and that it has all gone off so well,'
says Lady Mary.

'Really, Lady Mary,' says Mr Gwynne, 'great thanks are due to you for
the admirable manner in which you managed everything. I think it was
wonderful that we amalgamated, and all that sort of thing, don't you,
Gwynne?'

Colonel Vaughan replies, yawning,--

'I don't know what on earth we shall do without Freda! And she to throw
herself away upon that stupid London parish, where all her charming
manner and talent will be lavished upon ragged schools and missionary
meetings. I wish she had never come back.'

'Oh, Gwynne, I'm th