with honeysuckle and
clematis, and he looked up the stream and down the stream, and then at
the weir over which the water tumbled and roared; he saw that
everything was all right after its night's rest. So he put his hands
in his pockets, and went round to the back of the house to see how his
peas and beans were conducting themselves. They were flourishing. Next
he looked at some poultry in a wired-off space; they seemed very glad
to see him, even the little chickens having good appetites, and being
ready for their breakfasts.

After this inspection Edward Rowles went indoors again, and looked at
his son Philip, who was still asleep in his little camp-bed in the
corner of the sitting-room.

"Get up, lad, get up," said the father; "don't be the last."

Philip opened his eyes and rubbed them, and within a few minutes was
washing and dressing.

In the meantime Mrs. Rowles was lighting the fire in the kitchen,
filling the kettle with water from the well, getting down bread and
butter from a shelf, and preparing everything for the morning meal.

Presently there appeared a little girl, Emily by name, who slept in a
tiny attic all by herself, and who was very slow in dressing, and
generally late in coming down.

"Come, bustle about, Emily," said her mother. "Here, this slice of
bread is very dry, so toast it, and then it will be extra nice."

Emily obeyed. Philip got a broom and swept out the kitchen; Mr. Rowles
brought in a handful of mustard-and-cress as a relish for
bread-and-butter. And soon they were all seated at the table.

"Not a boat in sight," said Mr. Rowles; "nor yet a punt."

"It is early yet," replied his wife; "wait until the first train from
London comes in."

"Like enough there will be folks come by it," rejoined Rowles; "they
must be precious glad to get out of London this hot day."

"Why must they be glad, father?" asked Philip.

"Because London is awful hot in hot weather; it seems as if it had not
got enough air for all the folks to breathe that live in it. Millions
of people, Philip. Write down a million on your slate, boy."

Philip brought his slate and pencil and wrote 1,000,000.

"Write it over again, and twice more. Now that seems a good many, eh?
Well, there are more people in London than all those millions on your
slate. What do you think of that?"

The boy had no idea at all of what a million of people would look
like, nor a million of lemon drops, nor a million of anything. He di