ed to live. Oh, poor fellow, he did groan so!"

Bobby burst into passionate tears, and Philip buried his head on his
arms.

Neither Alice nor I could speak, but Charles got up and went round and
stood by Philip.

"You've been helping," he said emphatically, "I know you have. You're
a good fellow, Philip, and I beg your pardon for saucing you. I am
going to forget about the football too. I was going to have eaten raw
meat, and dumb-belled, to make myself strong enough to thrash you,"
added Charles remorsefully.

"Eat a butcher's shop full, if you like," replied Philip with
contempt. And I think it showed that Charles was beginning to practise
forbearance, that he made no reply.

* * * * *

Some years have passed since those Twelfth Night theatricals. The
Dragon has long been dissolved into his component scales, and we never
have impromptu performances now. The passing fame which a terrible
railway accident gave to our insignificant station has also faded. But
it set a seal on our good resolutions which I may honestly say has not
been lightly broken.

There, on the very spot where I had almost resolved never to forgive
Philip, never to try to heal the miserable wounds of the family peace,
I learned the news of the accident in which he might have been
killed. Philip says that if anything could make him behave better to
me it is the thought that I saved his life, as he calls it. But if
anything could help me to be good to him, surely it must be the
remembrance of how nearly I did not save him.

I put Alice on an equality in our bedroom that night, and gave her
part-ownership of the text and the picture. We are very happy
together.

We have all tried to improve, and I think I may say we have been
fairly successful.

More than once I have heard (one does hear many things people say
behind one's back) that new acquaintances--people who have only known
us lately--have expressed astonishment, not unmixed with a generous
indignation, on hearing that we were ever described by our friends
as--A VERY ILL-TEMPERED FAMILY.

OUR FIELD.

Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind,
In the primal sympathy
Which, having been, must ever be.

* * * * *

And, O ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves,
Think not