Since the passing of Victoria and the high-noon of her reign, the purely English ideal of womanhood has disappeared curiously from contemporary art and has not the firm hold upon the general mind that it had thirty years ago. The heroines of poems and fictions are complex people to-day, world-weary, tempestuous and without peace of heart or mind. The two great voices of the immediate past have lost much of their meaning for modern ears. "So just A type of womankind, that God sees fit to trust Her with the holy task of giving life in turn." --Not many pens nor brushes are busy with such ladies now. "Crown'd Isabel, thro' all her placid life, The queen of marriage, a most perfect wife." --Who sings such Isabels to-day? It is Calypso of the magic island of whom the modern world loves to hear, and few poets sing Penelope faithful by the hearth any more. But when deep peace broods over a dwelling, it is from the Mary Lothians of England that it comes. Mary was very simply dressed, but there was an indescribable air of distinction about her. The skirt of white piqué hung perfectly, the cream-coloured blouse with drawn-thread work at the neck and wrists was fresh and dainty. On her head was a panama hat with a scarf of mauve silk tied loosely round it and hanging down her back in two long ends. In one hand she held a silver-headed walking cane, in the other a small prayer-book, for she was going to matins before breakfast. She spoke a word to the cook and went out of the back door, calling a good-morning to Tumpany as she passed his shed, and then went through the entrance-gate into the village street. By this hour the labourers were all at work in the fields and farmyards--the hay harvest was over and the corn cutting about to begin--but the cottage doors were open and the children were gathering in little groups, ready to proceed to school. There was a fresh smell of wood-smoke in the air and the gardens of the cottages were brilliant with flowers. Mary Lothian, however, was thinking very little about the village--to which she was Lady Bountiful. She hardly noticed the sweet day springing over the country side. She was thinking of Gilbert. He had been away for a week now and she had heard no news of him except for a couple of brief telegrams. For several days before he went to London, she had seen the signs of restlessness and ennui approaching. She knew them well. He had been irritable and moody by fits and starts. After lunch he had slept away the afternoons, and at dinner he had been feverishly gay. Once or twice he had driven into Wordingham--the local town--during the afternoon, and had returned late at night, very angry on one of these occasions to find her sitting up for him.