rning. John did his best to help, but finally the mother pleaded how
hard it was that the children should miss their holiday-walk with him,
so we were all dismissed from the scene of action, to spend a long,
quiet two hours, lying under the great oak on One-Tree Hill. The little
ones played about till they were tired; then John took out the
newspaper, and read about Ciudad Rodrigo and Lord Wellington's entry
into Madrid--the battered eagles and the torn and bloody flags of
Badajoz, which were on their way home to the Prince Regent.

"I wish the fighting were over, and peace were come," said Muriel.

But the boys wished quite otherwise; they already gloried in the
accounts of battles, played domestic games of French and English, acted
garden sieges and blockades.

"How strange and awful it seems, to sit on this green grass, looking
down on our quiet valley, and then think of the fighting far away in
Spain--perhaps this very minute, under this very sky. Boys, I'll never
let either of you be a soldier."

"Poor little fellows!" said I, "they can remember nothing but war time."

"What would peace be like?" asked Muriel.

"A glorious time, my child--rejoicings everywhere, fathers and brothers
coming home, work thriving, poor men's food made cheap, and all things
prospering."

"I should like to live to see it. Shall I be a woman, then, father?"

He started. Somehow, she seemed so unlike an ordinary child, that
while all the boys' future was merrily planned out--the mother often
said, laughing, she knew exactly what sort of a young man Guy would
be--none of us ever seemed to think of Muriel as a woman.

"Is Muriel anxious to be grown up? Is she not satisfied with being my
little daughter always?"

"Always."

Her father drew her to him, and kissed her soft, shut, blind eyes.
Then, sighing, he rose, and proposed that we should all go home.

This first feast at Longfield was a most merry day. The men and their
families came about noon. Soon after, they all sat down to dinner; Jem
Watkins' plan of the barn being universally scouted in favour of an
open-air feast, in the shelter of a hay-rick, under the mild blue
September sky. Jem presided with a ponderous dignity which throughout
the day furnished great private amusement to Ursula, John, and me.

In the afternoon, all rambled about as they liked--many under the
ciceroneship of Master Edwin and Master Guy, who were very popular and
grand indeed. Then the mot