"Up to town. We’re all going, except those young people who must remain in expectation of what we shall bring them when we return. You shall see, Dove—what shall you not see? I have always promised to give you a good dose of town; and now you shall have it. You shall sit up in a wire cage in the House of Commons, and look over the heads of the reporters on the drowsy gentlemen beneath. You shall see Mr. Gladstone, lying back, with his head in the air; you shall see Mr. Disraeli, apparently going to cry; and Lord Stanley, with his hat on the back of his head, and his hands in his pockets, looking as if he had just lost a bet." "I shouldn’t care a bit about one of them," said Dove. "Then you shall go to another wire cage at Evans’s; and you shall see a row of pale little boys in black, with their hands behind them, singing to rows of decorous gentlemen; or you may light upon the audience in its idiotic stage, and find them applauding Philistinic politics over their raw chops. Then—and listen, mamma!—the programme begins with a box, to-morrow evening, at the —— theatre, where Miss Annie Brunel is playing her ’Juliet.’" "The new actress, Will?" asked his father. "Yes." "Ah! _now_ you promise us something worth seeing," said Dove, with glad eyes. "And oh, mamma, Will knows Miss Brunel, and has spoken to her, and says that she is——" "Lovely," she was about to say; but she added "pretty," moderating her enthusiasm. "Yes, I think she is rather pghetty," said Will; at which all the children laughed. "But you’ll judge for yourself to-morrow night." After dinner, and when the children had received a tiny sip of port wine along with their fruit, Mr. Anerley proposed to Will that they should smoke outside; and so a small table, some decanters and glasses, and a few chairs were carried out, and placed under a great cedar tree, which was now beginning to get a soft green velvet over its dark shelves of branches. "Dove," whispered Mr. Anerley, "go and ask mamma if I mayn’t have my song to-day?" "But, papa, it’s Sunday." "Tell mamma to take all the children into the meadow, with some bread for the pony. They won’t hear it, then." This was accordingly done; and then Dove, opening the French window of the drawing-room, so that the music might pass out to the gentlemen underneath the cedar, sang, very prettily indeed, Mr. Anerley’s particular song—"Where the bee sucks." Her voice was not a powerful one, but it was very tender and expressive; and there was a quaint softness in that purring habit of hers which made her sing, "Meghily, meghily shall I sleep now." And when she went outside to Mr. Anerley, and knelt down beside him, to ask him if he was satisfied, he put his arm round her waist and said, with a smile, "Meghily, meghily shall I sleep now, my darling. I should have been miserable all the afternoon if I had not heard my own song. I believe I wrote it, Dove."