"One will reap," replies Eleanor, wisely, "and another will sow. Some may slay oxen and wring the fowls' necks, and perhaps for all we know murder each other. It is a horrible thought, isn't it? They look so thoroughly innocent, these country children. Do you see that little boy crying because he was knocked down in the three-legged steeplechase. His life race is only just beginning. His father is in gaol for theft, his mother incurable in a Samaritan infirmary, yet he is only crying because he grazed his knee and did not win a packet of bull's-eyes." Eleanor's voice is low and expressive as her deep sapphire eyes--fascinating the man by their changeful beauty--one moment light and dancing like the sunbeams in the branches, the next overflowing with pity for a pauper child. The little ones gather round, clinging to her skirts. She is tender and kind to all, though her gaze rests chiefly on the tall, sunburnt stranger making himself popular with the youngsters in her class. "Look, teacher," cries the same wee maiden who is responsible for Philip's first appearance in their games. "I won 'er, 'opping along o' Margery in the big race," holding aloft a doll with great staring glass eyes and brilliantly rouged cheeks. "Ain't she beautiful?" "What will you name her?" asks the Sunday-school teacher sweetly. "Don't know," sighs the child perplexedly. "Eleanor," suggests Philip. "We 'ad a little sister named Eleanor, but she 'adn't got enough blood in her, so she died." "Then you must call your doll by another name," says Miss Grebby decidedly. But the small girl shakes her head, and announces with precision: "I'll call 'er Eleanor!" and marches away well satisfied, to re-open a half-closed wound in her mother's breast. "I hit on an unfortunate suggestion," whispers Philip, while the ever energetic Miss Grebby initiates him into the mysteries of "Nuts in May," "Poor Mary sits a-weeping," and "I have a little dog." The soft twilight gradually creeps over this summer world, and the great red sun sinks down in its sea of fire behind the trees. The birds chirp a good-night song, till their piping is drowned by the hearty cheers of the happy children ringing out stirringly on the still damp air. "And now--home!" sighs Eleanor, with a little grimace, as Philip bends down to fasten a spray of wild honeysuckle in her belt. "May I see you back?" he asks eagerly, noting the bright smile that flits across her lips at the suggestion. "_Could_ you walk a mile?" questions Eleanor in mock astonishment. "I thought London people always drove. The vicar's wife had some friends from South Kensington who were positively lame if they went any distance on foot. They said our country roads were a disgrace--no asphalte, no hansom cabs."