well to
ponder. They seem to take the text and preach patience to those who are
hot-headed, and eager to press on any reform, or to advocate, with
intemperate zeal, any scheme, even though they honestly believe it is
for the good of the people.

The wise advice of the Poet Laureate seems worthy to be followed at this
very moment, when the kingdom is, from one end to the other, vibrating
with the burning questions which shall decide the success, or
non-success, of the two great parties which divide the nation:

"Have patience--ourselves are full
Of social wrong; and maybe wildest dreams
Are but the needful preludes of the truth.
This fine old world of ours is but a child
Yet in the go-cart. _Patience!_ Give it time
To learn its limbs--there is _a Hand that guides_."

The carriage containing the happy mother and her children went merrily
on its way to Bristol.

The first glory of the spring was reigning everywhere. The hedgerows
were full of starry primroses, and the copses carpeted with bluebells.

Fair companies of wind flowers quivered in the gentle breeze, and the
variety of foliage in the woods was almost as great as in autumn. Every
shade of green shone in the sunlight, from silvery birch to emerald
lime, sober elm, and russet oak, with the young tassels hanging on the
birch, and the contrasting sombre dark hue of the pines, clothing the
woods with surpassing beauty.

The baby, lulled by the motion of the carriage and the regular sound of
the horses' hoofs, was soon in profound slumber. Little Lota and
Lettice, who bore the names of the aunt and niece in the Vicar's Close,
after taking some buns from their grandmother's well-filled basket, also
subsided into sleep. Lota was taken by her grandmother, and Lettice,
with the support of Piers' arm, had a comfortable nap. Only Falcon, in
the "dickey" behind, was wide awake. He was a noble-looking boy of five
years old, with fresh, blue eyes and a fair complexion. He was like his
mother in features, and his grandfather in his stout, athletic build. He
had a loud, childish voice, and, as he whipped the back of the carriage,
he sang lustily, in a sort of monotone, which kept time with the horses'
feet:

"Home--home--home to father."

His mother heard the words, and they found an echo in her heart of
"Home--home to Gilbert."

Joyce's girlish loveliness had developed into the matured beauty of the
mother, which is always so attractive. Her face shone