uire his impressions of Parliament and things at large. From
seven to seven-thirty she changed to a black low dress, with old lace
about the neck. At seven-thirty she dined. At a quarter to nine she
listened to Norah playing two waltzes of Chopin's, and a piece called
"Serenade du Printemps" by Baff, and to Bee singing "The Mikado," or the
"Saucy Girl" From nine to ten thirty she played a game called piquet,
which her father had taught her, if she could get anyone with whom to
play; but as this was seldom, she played as a rule patience by herself.
At ten-thirty she went to bed. At eleven-thirty punctually the Squire
woke her. At one o'clock she went to sleep. On Mondays she wrote out
in her clear Totteridge hand, with its fine straight strokes, a list of
library books, made up without distinction of all that were recommended
in the Ladies' Paper that came weekly to Worsted Skeynes. Periodically
Mr. Pendyce would hand her a list of his own, compiled out of the Times
and the Field in the privacy of his study; this she sent too.

Thus was the household supplied with literature unerringly adapted to
its needs; nor was it possible for any undesirable book to find its way
into the house--not that this would have mattered much to Mrs. Pendyce,
for as she often said with gentle regret, "My dear, I have no time to
read."

This afternoon it was so warm that the bees were all around among the
blossoms, and two thrushes, who had built in a yew-tree that watched
over the Scotch garden, were in a violent flutter because one of their
chicks had fallen out of the nest. The mother bird, at the edge of the
long orchard grass, was silent, trying by example to still the tiny
creature's cheeping, lest it might attract some large or human thing.

Mrs. Pendyce, sitting under the oldest cherry-tree, looked for the
sound, and when she had located it, picked up the baby bird, and, as she
knew the whereabouts of all the nests, put it back into its cradle,
to the loud terror and grief of the parent birds. She went back to the
bench and sat down again.

She had in her soul something of the terror of the mother thrush. The
Maidens had been paying the call that preceded their annual migration to
town, and the peculiar glow which Lady Maiden had the power of raising
had not yet left her cheeks. True, she had the comfort of the thought,
'Ellen Maiden is so bourgeoise,' but to-day it did not still her heart.

Accompanied by one pale daughter who nev