is tombstone can say to his own heart, "Perish Stars
and Garters: my existence shall pass from day to day in honeysuckle
arbours!"

Sir Gregory Stollhead interrupted Vance's revery by an impassioned
sneeze. "Dreadful smell of hay!" said the legislator, with watery
eyes. "Are you subject to the hay fever? I am! A-tisha-tisha-tisha
[sneezing]--country frightfully unwholesome at this time of year. And
to think that I ought now to be in the House,--in my committee-room; no
smell of hay there; most important committee."

VANCE (rousing himself).--"Ah--on what?"

SIR GREGORY (regretfully).--"Sewers."

CHAPTER XVI.

Signs of an impending revolution, which, like all revolutions, seems
to come of a sudden, though its causes have long been at work; and
to go off in a tantrum, though its effects must run on to the end of
a history.

Lionel could not find in the toy-shops of the village a doll good enough
to satisfy his liberal inclinations, but he bought one which amply
contented the humbler aspirations of Sophy. He then strolled to the
post-office. There were several letters for Vance; one for himself in
his mother's handwriting. He delayed opening it for the moment. The day
was far advanced Sophy must be hungry. In vain she declared she was not.
They passed by a fruiterer's stall. The strawberries and cherries
were temptingly fresh; the sun still very powerful. At the back of the
fruiterer's was a small garden, or rather orchard, smiling cool through
the open door; little tables laid out there. The good woman who kept
the shop was accustomed to the wants and tastes of humble metropolitan
visitors. But the garden was luckily now empty: it was before the usual
hour for tea-parties; so the young folks had the pleasantest table under
an apple-tree, and the choice of the freshest fruit. Milk and cakes were
added to the fare. It was a banquet, in Sophy's eyes, worthy that happy
day. And when Lionel had finished his share of the feast, eating fast,
as spirited, impatient boys formed to push on in life and spoil their
digestion are apt to do; and while Sophy was still lingering over the
last of the strawberries, he threw himself back on his chair and drew
forth his letter. Lionel was extremely fond of his mother, but her
letters were not often those which a boy is over-eager to read. It
is not all mothers who understand what boys are,--their quick
susceptibilities, their precocious manliness, all their mystical