Round the corner of the path there came into view the figure of Morris, keeper of the South Lodge, sweeping the gravel path, his head bent over his task. Cornelia's naughty eyes sent out a flash of delight. She cleared her throat in a deliberate "hem," cleared it again, and coughed in conclusion. Morris leant on his broom, surveyed the landscape o'er, and visibly reeled at the sight of such barefaced trespassing. The broom was hoisted against a tree, while he himself mounted the sloping path, shading his eyes from the sun. At the first glance he had recognised the "'Merican young lady," whose doings and clothings-- particularly clothings--had formed the unvarying theme of his wife's conversation for the last fortnight. He had committed himself so far as to say that he rather fancied the looks of her, but in the depths of his heart the feeling lingered that for a born lady she was a trifle "free." Morris was a survival of the old feudal type who "knew his place," and enjoyed being trampled under foot by his "betters." If an employer addressed him in terms of kindly consideration, his gratitude was tinged with contempt. These were not the manners of the good old gentry in whose service he had been trained! Opposite the oak tree he came to a stand, and assumed his official manner. "Beg pardon, miss; visitors his not permitted on the graws." "For the land's sake, why not?" "It's against the rules, miss." "Suppose it is! What will happen if I break 'em?" Morris looked discomfited, pushed his hat from his forehead, and murmured vaguely that he 'sposed she'd be punished. "Who by? Who does the grass belong to, anyhow?" "To yer Rant, miss, and the hother ladies and gentlemen that owns the park." "Well, and what could _they_ do?" Morris, still vague and uncomfortable, murmured concerning prosecution. "What's prosecution?" queried Cornelia. "Sounds exciting, anyway. Much more exciting than sitting on the gravel paths. Guess I'll stay where I am, and find out. You get on with your work, and keep calm, and when the fun begins you can waltz in, and play your part. It's no use _one_ officer trying to arrest me, though! You'll need a _posse_, for I'll fight to the death! You might give them the tip!" Morris walked down hill in stunned surprise, leaving Cornelia to chuckle to herself in restored good humour. Her impulses towards rebellion and repentance were alike swift and speedy, but between the two lay a span of licence, when she revelled in revolt, and felt the tingling of riotous success. Such a moment was the present as she watched Morris's dumb retreat, and cast her dancing eyes around, in search of the next victim. For the moment no living creature was in sight, but the scene was sufficiently entrancing to justify the statement that there is no country in the world so charming as England on a fine June day.