trees," she says, sentimentally, "and the
ivied walls of the old church, and the meadows beyond, and the tinkling
of the tiny bells, and the soft white sheep as they move perpetually
onward in the far, far distance."

She sighs, as though overcome by the perfect picture she has so kindly
drawn for their benefit.

"I wish to goodness she would move on herself," says Dicky Browne. "It
is enough to make poor Gray turn in his grave."

"I think she describes rather prettily, and quite as if she meant it,"
says Portia, softly.

"Not a bit of it," growls Dicky; "she _don't_ mean it; she couldn't;
It's all put on--regular plaster! She doesn't feel it; she knows as much
about poetry as I do."

"You underrate yourself, my darling boy," says Roger, fondly.

"Oh! you get out," says Mr. Brown, most ungratefully.

"I think to be able to read _really_ well is an intense charm," goes on
Julia, glancing sweetly at Stephen. "If one had only some one to give
one a kindly hint now and then about the correct intonation and emphasis
and that, it would be a regular study, of course. I really have half a
mind to go in for it."

"So glad she has at last arrived at a just appreciation of her own
powers," says Dicky, _sotto voce_. "I should think she has just half a
mind and no more, to do anything with."

He is hushed up; and then Stephen goes on again, choosing passages from
Shakespeare this time, for a change, while silence once more reigns.

Roger is looking sulky and unkindly critical. Sir Mark has been guilty
of a small yawn or two. Julia, in spite of the most heroic efforts to
the contrary, is openly and disgracefully sleepy. Portia's eyes are full
of tears. Dicky Browne, who is tired of not hearing his own voice, and
whose only belief in the divine William is that he gave him "a jolly lot
of trouble in his schooldays," is aweary, and is only waiting an
opportunity to cut in and make himself heard, in spite of all
opposition.

It comes--the opportunity--and Dicky seizes it. Mr. Gower is at his very
best. He has thrown his whole soul into his voice, and is even himself
wrapt up in the piece he has before him.

"'Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown,'" his voice rings out clear
and full of melancholy prophecy; it is a voice that should have
impressed any right-minded individual, but Dicky's mind is below par.

"I should think he'd lie considerably more uneasy without it," he says,
cheerfully. "He'd feel like being scalped,