as her deep sapphire
eyes--fascinating the man by their changeful beauty--one moment light
and dancing like the sunbeams in the branches, the next overflowing
with pity for a pauper child.

The little ones gather round, clinging to her skirts. She is tender
and kind to all, though her gaze rests chiefly on the tall, sunburnt
stranger making himself popular with the youngsters in her class.

"Look, teacher," cries the same wee maiden who is responsible for
Philip's first appearance in their games. "I won 'er, 'opping along o'
Margery in the big race," holding aloft a doll with great staring glass
eyes and brilliantly rouged cheeks. "Ain't she beautiful?"

"What will you name her?" asks the Sunday-school teacher sweetly.

"Don't know," sighs the child perplexedly.

"Eleanor," suggests Philip.

"We 'ad a little sister named Eleanor, but she 'adn't got enough blood
in her, so she died."

"Then you must call your doll by another name," says Miss Grebby
decidedly.

But the small girl shakes her head, and announces with precision:

"I'll call 'er Eleanor!" and marches away well satisfied, to re-open a
half-closed wound in her mother's breast.

"I hit on an unfortunate suggestion," whispers Philip, while the ever
energetic Miss Grebby initiates him into the mysteries of "Nuts in
May," "Poor Mary sits a-weeping," and "I have a little dog."

The soft twilight gradually creeps over this summer world, and the
great red sun sinks down in its sea of fire behind the trees.

The birds chirp a good-night song, till their piping is drowned by the
hearty cheers of the happy children ringing out stirringly on the still
damp air.

"And now--home!" sighs Eleanor, with a little grimace, as Philip bends
down to fasten a spray of wild honeysuckle in her belt.

"May I see you back?" he asks eagerly, noting the bright smile that
flits across her lips at the suggestion.

"_Could_ you walk a mile?" questions Eleanor in mock astonishment. "I
thought London people always drove. The vicar's wife had some friends
from South Kensington who were positively lame if they went any
distance on foot. They said our country roads were a disgrace--no
asphalte, no hansom cabs."

"Come along," murmurs Philip, whose long strides are not easy to keep
pace with. They walk more slowly when out of sight. Oh, the
delightful dawdle back through the vague shadows of evening in sweetly
scented lanes! How merrily she prattles with charming ingen