The evening light slanted over the park, making the grass yellow as corn, and casting purple shadows behind the elms. The front of the house toward the terrace was glorified, the plate glass windows gleamed as if rolled out of sunlight. The terrace was alive with people in their gayest dresses, in light summer colours, pink and turquoise, strawberry, spring green, crimson and cream. The band was playing, and the scarlet uniforms of the military formed a brilliant patch of colour at the end of the terrace against a bank of yews. Below the terrace was the tennis-court, reached by a flight of several steps, and against the wall that upheld the terrace roses were trained, and were in masses of flower, scenting the air. The lawn-tennis ground formed a second terrace banked up from the park which sloped away rapidly thence to the winding river Ore. In the midst of the flower-beds and moving coloured kaleidoscope of figures on the gravelled terrace was a fountain and a basin. In the latter floated water-lilies, and gold fish darted, and carried off the crumbs cast to them. The water that leaped out of a triton’s shell was turned in the evening sun as it fell, into amethysts. Away, across the valley, stood the little church with its tower peeping out of limes, now all alight with the western sun; and the cock on its top was turned to a bird of fire. “Hark!” exclaimed the rector, “I hear our bell. Good heaven! Surely I’ve not forgotten—I did not know there was to be a funeral. I did not know any one was ill—in danger. It is tolling.” Then the band, which had rested for a moment and shaken the moisture out of their wind instruments, and cleared their throats with iced ale, came to attention as the conductor rattled his staff on the music-stand, and beat, one, two, three, four! Then with a blast and crash and rattle— “Se-e-e the conquer-ing her-er-er-er-er-o comes, Sou-ou-ound the trum-pets, Be-e-eat the drums.” At that moment, again, a little hand was thrust into that of Lady Lamerton, and again she saw her boy, Giles, at her side. He was looking pale, and was crying. “What is the matter, Giles? You are shivering. Have you taken a chill? Go indoors, dear.” “Mamma,” said the boy, “I want papa. I have shown the Fountayne boys my pony and the horses, and my goat, and rabbits, whatever I thought papa would like them to see, and now I want papa. Where is papa?” “My dear, you must go indoors. What is that? In pity—what is going on? Surely the public are not going to invade the terrace.” Yes—they were. A large party had been shown the state apartments, had looked at the pictures, tried the sofas, made jokes over the family portraits, attempted to finger the china, and then had assembled at the drawing-room windows which commanded the terrace and the lawn-tennis courts.