u can, for close upon my heels is
Winter."

You can still see the terrace much as this young woman, Lady Gwendolen
Rivers--that was her name--saw it on that July evening, provided always
that you choose one with such another rainbow. There is not much garden
between it and the Park, which goes on for miles, and begins at the sunk
fence over yonder. They are long miles too, and no stint; and it is an
hour's walk from the great gate to the house, unless you run; so says
the host of the Rivers Arms, which is ten minutes from the gate. You can
lose yourself in this park, and there are red-deer as well as
fallow-deer; and what is more, wild cattle who are dangerous, and who
have lived on as a race from the days of Welsh Home Rule, and know
nothing about London or English History. Even so in the Transvaal it is
said that some English scouts came upon a peaceful valley with a
settlement of Dutch farmers therein, who had to be told about the War to
check their embarrassing hospitality. The parallel fails, however, for
the wild white cattle of Ancester Park paw the earth up and charge, when
they see strangers. The railway had to go round another way to keep
their little scrap of ancient forest intact; for the family at the
Castle has always taken the part of the bulls against all comers. Little
does Urus know how superficial, how skin-deep, his loneliness has
become--that he is really under tutelage unawares, and even
surreptitiously helped to supplies of forage in seasons of dearth! Will
his race linger on and outlive the race of Man when that biped has
shelled and torpedoed and dynamited himself out of existence? And will
they then fill the newest New Forest that will have covered the
smokeless land, with the descendants of the herds that Caesar's troops
found in the Hercynian wilds? They are a fascinating subject for a
wandering pen, but the one that writes this must not be led away from
Lady Gwendolen on the terrace that looks across this cramped inheritance
of beech and bracken. If she could always look like what the level sun
makes her now, in the heart of a rainbow, few things the world can show
would outbid her right to a record, or make the penning of it harder.
For just at this moment she looks simply beautiful beyond belief. It is
not all the doing of the sunrays, for she is a fine sample of nineteen,
of a type which has kindled enthusiasm since the comparatively recent
incursion of William the Norman, and will contin