ork of shapely ash trees through whose branches it is seen.

Along the river bank, nestling under the hanging wood, are rows of old
stone cottages, with gables warped a little on one side. One light
shines forth from the lattice window of the ancient mill; but in the
cool thick-walled houses the honest peasants are slumbering in deep,
peaceful sleep.

"Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep.
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God, the very houses seem asleep."

WORDSWORTH.

We are in the very heart of England. What a contrast to London at night,
where many a poor fellow must be tossing restlessly in the stifling
atmosphere!

As we return towards the old manor house the nightjar, or goatsucker,
is droning loudly, and a nightingale--actually a nightingale!--is
singing in the copse. These birds seldom visit us in the Cotswolds. In
the deserted garden the scent of fresh-mown hay is filling the air, and

"The moping owl doth to the moon complain
Of such as wander near her secret bower."

As we go we pluck some sprigs of fragrant honeysuckle and carry them
indoors. And so to bed, passing on the broad oak staircase the weird
picture of the man who built this rambling old house more than three
hundred years ago.

There is a plain everyday phenomenon connected with pictures, and more
especially photographs, which must have been noticed time after time by
thousands of people; yet I never heard it mentioned in conversation or
saw it in print. I allude to the extraordinary sympathy the features of
a portrait are capable of assuming towards the expression of countenance
of the man who is looking at it. There is something at times almost
uncanny in it. Stand opposite a photograph of a friend when you are
feeling sad, and the picture is sad. Laugh, and the mouth of your friend
seems to curl into a smile, and his eyes twinkle merrily. Relapse into
gloom and despondency, and the smile dies away from the picture. Often
in youth, when about to carry out some design or other, I used to glance
at my late father's portrait, and never failed to notice a look of
approval or condemnation on the face which left its mark on the memory
for a considerable time. The countenance of the grim old gentleman in
the portrait on the stairs ("AETATIS SUAE 92. 1614 A.D.") wore a
distinct air of satisfaction to-night as I passed by on my way to bed;
he always looks pleased after there has been a good