Harold did not appear to know, nor yet to care. He had laid open his mole-run for a yard or so, and was still grubbing at it absorbedly. “It's Trafalgar Day,” went on Selina, trancedly; “Trafalgar Day--and nobody cares!” Something in her tone told Harold that he was not behaving quite becomingly. He didn't exactly know in what manner; still, he abandoned his mole-hunt for a more courteous attitude of attention. “Over there,” resumed Selina--she was gazing out in the direction of the old highroad--“over there the coaches used to go by. Uncle Thomas was telling me about it the other day. And the people used to watch for 'em coming, to tell the time by, and p'r'aps to get their parcels. And one morning--they wouldn't be expecting anything different--one morning, first there would be a cloud of dust, as usual, and then the coach would come racing by, and THEN they would know! For the coach would be dressed in laurel, all laurel from stem to stern! And the coachman would be wearing laurel, and the guard would be wearing laurel; and then they would know, then they would know!” Harold listened in respectful silence. He would much rather have been hunting the mole, who must have been a mile away by this time if he had his wits about him. But he had all the natural instincts of a gentleman; of whom it is one of the principal marks, if not the complete definition, never to show signs of being bored. Selina rose to her feet, and paced the turf restlessly with a short quarter-deck walk. “Why can't we DO something?” she burst out presently. “HE--he did everything--why can't we do anything for him?” “WHO did everything?” inquired Harold, meekly. It was useless wasting further longings on that mole. Like the dead, he travelled fast. “Why, Nelson, of course,” said Selina, shortly, still looking restlessly around for help or suggestion. “But he's--he's DEAD, isn't he?” asked Harold, slightly puzzled. “What's that got to do with it?” retorted his sister, resuming her caged-lion promenade.