omy cottage at Keswick for
the summer holidays, and the Harcourts and Kester were to join them.
Audrey was thankful that her father had not selected Scotland, as his
son-in-law had suggested; and she made up her mind, in her sensible way,
that, as far as lay in her power, she would enjoy herself as much as
possible; and after a time her efforts were not unsuccessful.

Derwent-water was in unusual beauty that year, and a spell of warm,
sunny weather enabled them to enjoy their boating expeditions on the
lake. Audrey liked to paddle herself and Mollie to one of the islands,
and sit there reading and working, while Kester and Percival fished and
Geraldine roamed by the lake-side with her bonnie boy, sitting like a
young prince in his little wheeled carriage, beside her. There was a
long-tailed, shaggy pony belonging to the cottage--a sturdy,
sure-footed, good-tempered animal, and Dr. Ross would often drive his
wife through some of the lovely dales. Mrs. Ross never thoroughly
enjoyed herself in a boat--she had a dislike to find herself surrounded
by the deep, clear water; and she much preferred the chaise and Jemmy.

'You were always a goose, Emmie, and I suppose that is why I married
you,' Dr. Ross remarked, as he tickled up Jemmy's broad back with the
whip.

Nevertheless, the Doctor loved these expeditions quite as much as his
wife did.

'What a handsome Darby and Joan they look, Jerry!' Mr. Harcourt once
said, as he walked beside her, with Leonard proudly seated on his
shoulder. 'I doubt if we shall make such a good-looking couple, my love,
in thirty years' time.'

But Mr. Harcourt was smiling in a sly fashion, as he took a sidelong
glance at his graceful wife. Geraldine was looking lovelier than ever in
the broad-brimmed hat that her husband had chosen for her.

A sad event happened soon after their return to Woodcote. Matthew
O'Brien died on the anniversary of his son's death. His end had been
very sudden; no one had suspected that for months an insidious disease
had been making stealthy progress. He had seemed much as usual, and had
made no complaint, only Mrs. Baxter had remarked to her father that
Uncle Mat seemed quieter-like and more peaceable. 'He has given up those
wearisome prowls of his, and takes more kindly to the chimney-corner,'
as she said.

But one evening Mat put his pipe down silently before it was half
smoked, and went off to bed, and the next day he complained of pain and
drowsiness; and Pri