Some very pleasant memories are connected with enjoyable summers spent at Sevenoaks, where my father took a house for two years, close to the seven oaks from which the neighbourhood takes its name. Particularly I remember the amusing incident of the burglar. I was awakened from midnight slumbers by my sister knocking at the door and calling in a melodramatic voice "Awake!... awake!... There is a burglar in our room." I promptly rushed to her bedroom, where I found my other sister crouching under the bedclothes in speechless terror. Having satisfied myself as to the utter absence of a burglar in that particular room, I started to search the house--but by this time the whole household was thoroughly roused; the various members appeared with candles, and together we ransacked the establishment from garret to cellar. In the excitement of the moment we had not had time to consider our appearances and the procession was ludicrous in the extreme. My grandfather (in the absence of my father) came first in dressing-gown, a candle in one hand and a stick in the other. My mother came next (in curl papers), and then my eldest sister. It was the day of chignons, when everybody, without exception, wore their hair in that particular style. On this occasion my sister's head was conspicuous by its quaint little hastily bundled up knot. I wore a night-shirt only; but my other sister, who was of a theatrical turn of mind (she who had awakened me), had taken the most trouble, for she wore stockings which, owing to some oversight in the way of garters, were coming down. After satisfying ourselves about the burglar--who was conspicuous by his absence--we adjourned to our respective rooms, while I went back to see the sister upon whom fright had had such paralyzing effects. There I heard an ominous rattle in the chimney. "Flora!" said my stage-struck sister, in trembling tones, with one hand raised (_à la_ Lady Macbeth)--and the poor girl under the clothes cowered deeper and deeper. Two seconds later a large brick rattled down and subsided noisily into the fireplace. "That is the end of the burglar," said I, and the terrified figure emerged from the bed, brave and reassured. Retiring to my room I recollected the procession, and having made a mental note of the affair went back to bed. Early the next morning I arose and made a complete caricature of the incident of the burglar, which set our family (and friends next day) roaring with laughter when they saw it. [Illustration: MY BROTHER, WRIOTHESLEY RUSSELL. 1872.] [Illustration: MY SISTER, BEATRICE. 1874.]