“It is the best fellow in the world,” cried Val, laughing, as Dick sprang aside to arrange the cushions in a boat which lay alongside the raft. “He’ll take you up to Surly faster than any one else on the river.” “But, Valentine--it is very kind of him,” said Vi, hesitating--“but you did not introduce him to us----” “Oh, he’s not a gentleman,” said Val, lightly; “that is to say,” he added, seeing Dick within reach, with a hasty blush, “he’s as good in himself as any one I know; but he ain’t one of the fellows, Vi; he works at the rafts--his name is Brown. Now, do you think you can steer? You used to, on the water at home.” “Oh yes,” said Violet, with modest confidence. Val stood and looked after them as the boat glided away up the crowded river; then he stalked along through the admiring crowd, feeling as a man may be permitted to feel who holds the foremost rank on a day of _fête_ and universal enjoyment. “To him each lady’s look was lent, On him each courtier’s eye was bent.” To be sure there were a great many others almost as exalted as Val; and only the initiated knew that he rowed in the Eight, and was captain of the Victory,--the best boat on the river. He stalked along to his boat, over the delicious turf of the Brocas, in the afternoon sunshine, threading his way through throngs of ladies in pretty dresses, and hundreds of white-waistcoated Etonians. How proud the small boys who knew him were, after receiving a nod from the demigod as he passed, to discourse loudly to gracious mother or eager sister, Val’s style and title! “That’s Ross at my dame’s--he’s in the Eight--he won the school sculling last summer half; and we think we’ll get the House Fours, now he’s captain. He’s an awfully jolly fellow when you know him,” crowed the small boys, feeling themselves exalted in the grandeur of his acquaintance; and the pretty sisters looked after Val, a certain awe mingling with their admiration; while Philistines and strangers, unaccompanied by even a small boy, felt nobodies, as became them. Then came the start up the river. Never was a prettier sight than this ceremonial. The river all golden with afternoon glory; the great trees on the Brocas expanding their huge boughs in the soft air, against the sky; the banks all lined with animated, bright-coloured crowds; the stream alive with attendant boats; and the great noble pile of the castle looking down serene from its height upon the children and subjects at its royal feet, making merry under its great and calm protection. It is George III.’s birthday--poor, obstinate, kindly old soul!--and this is how a lingering fragrance of kindness grows into a sort of fame. They say he was paternally fond and proud of the boys, who thus yearly, without knowing it, celebrate him still.