We left Frank Merivale very much absorbed in thought. All at once a happy thought seemed to strike him, for he started from his reverie, and began to execute a step something between a walk and a war-dance. A clump of rushes put an untimely end to this by tripping him up, and causing him to measure his length upon the ground. With philosophical composure he picked himself up, and walked off, whistling merrily, towards a fir copse which stood upon the crest of a rising, lying above. We should say that while the flat marsh stretches between Hickling Broad and the sea, to the westward and inland the country is diversified with woods, and slight elevations forming a very pretty sylvan district. Reaching the fir-wood Frank entered it, and after looking about for a little time, he fixed upon a tall slender young larch-tree. He walked round and round it, and examined it critically, finally lying down on his back at its foot, and, with his eye close to its stem, glanced up it to see if it were perfectly straight. Satisfied on this point, he took out a large clasp-knife, and marked the trunk with a huge cross. Then he crossed the hedge and took his way through a large park, until he came to a paddock and pleasant house nestling among some large lime-trees, and surrounded by croquet lawns and well-kept gardens. It was an old house, built with many wings and projections and in many styles of architecture, the most prominent of which was a heavily-timbered Elizabethan style. Around the two principal sides of the house ran a wooden veranda, which in summer was luxuriantly hung with roses. This was Frank Merivale's home, and vaulting over the gate which separated the paddock from the lawn, he went into the house. Coming down the broad staircase into the hall, he met his two sisters; the eldest, a girl of thirteen, was like her brother, blue eyed and yellow-haired, with a face full of fun and mischief. Her name was Mary. The younger sister bore the same strong family likeness and was barely eleven. "Well, merry Mary Merivale," said Frank, "is the pater in?" "Yes, Frank, he is in the library." "That's all right; and where are you going?" "We are going to dig pupæ for you," answered Mary. "Then you are a good little woman," replied Frank, catching her round the waist, and giving her a kiss. "Have you got a mat to kneel upon, so as not to catch cold?" "Yes, we have got a mat and a trowel, in this basket, and we mean to get you a lot of moths. Don't we, Florrie?" "Yes, ever so many." Frank went along the passage, and entered the library. Mr. Merivale was seated at the table writing. He was a pale and studious-looking man, with a very kind and genial expression of face. He owned a small estate on the shores of the Broad, and was a deep thinker and scholarly writer, writing books which were intended chiefly for college libraries. He looked up as his son entered, and said,-- "Well, Frank, what is it?" "Please father, my birthday is next week."