THE last pic-nic at which I "assisted" was in its way of a very pleasant and even a memorable character. It is worth while to say a word or two on the locality. It was one of the most secluded and picturesque districts of the southern coast. There is a broad landlocked estuary, and from this estuary the sea ramifies widely up the country, in a way that recals the dark fiords of Norway; in this direction and in that there are tidal rivers, and in another direction the water resembles a system and succession of lakes — sheets of gold in the sunset; and in another direction, as in the Scottish lakes, the sea wanders far away amid woods and mountains, and its ebbing and advancing waters lap the final tiny beach in some far inland nook. Now this pic-nic embraced partly a riding expedition, and partly a yachting excursion; and also our paths lay through woods and over abundant soft greensward. I felt obliged to the handsome boys and girls who made me join the party; for I am not young, and I am not eligible, and I possess the wholesome humility which such radical defects should impart. I have to re-echo the lyrical regret of old Barham of Ingoldsby fame,

"Eheu fugaces, Postume, Postume,  Anni labuntur, lost to me, lost to me!"

       I trust I did not abuse the good-nature shown towards me. There was one very sumptuous little girl, pretty and dewy as a star, soft and gracious as a summer sunset, who purled out most musical prattle, who, I believe, would at any time favour me with a stroll or with a song. I carefully talked with her, while that handsome Lothario army man, not worth more than the well-turned boots he stood in (on the favourable hypothesis that they were paid for), was hovering around her like a hawk o'er a dove; but I surrendered her cheerfully to her well-mannered, well-acred squire, the country gentleman who will be the county member. And, remembering pretty Bella, let me admonish all young ladies to try and be gracious and sweet-tempered, the proper disposition that suits the summer pic-nic — a disposition which even without beauty is so often successful, and with beauty is absolutely irresistible. I noticed, at the outset, with the eye of generalship, that the party was very ill-chaperoned. Poor Lady Green was utterly weak and commonplace, and so far from being able to exert management and influence — the dowagers will tell you that both are often really necessary at a pic-nic — would, at any difficulty, sink into a state of the feeblest nonentity. Mrs. Totteridge, on the other hand, would manage admirably till sunset, and if she could then bring her brood into covert, all would be well; but she would not encounter any evening breeze that might threaten rheumatism or lumbago. We had a glorious day and a magnificent feed; and then the little loves, who were obviously ignorant of the fact that they possessed digestive organs, commenced their playful terpsichorean preludes. Dancing is not in my line; and I stroll away with that worthy man and well-known historic character, Dr. Dryasdust, to look at some curious Roman remains that had lately been disinterred a few miles off. The music of voices lessened and grew still as we boated up the river, and soon we only heard the ripple of the stream and the gentle swaying of boughs. We worked away at the ruins, when I think I satisfactorily demonstrated the site of the old atrium; and, let it be recorded to the immortal honour of Dryasdust, that he had surreptitiously conveyed some bottles of claret into the boat, which, cooled in the stream, formed a truly refreshing beverage.

       The shadows were gathering as we rejoined the party. Some ingenious wretch had discovered an adjacent barn, which had been extemporised into a ballroom. Tea was being handed about, and an intimation was conveyed to me that there would be supper in a few hours' time. But we found Mrs. Totteridge compassed about with wraps, and complaining of premonitory symptoms of lumbago. She immediately ordered her carriage, into which Dr. Dryasdust incontinently sneaked. Let me confess that I followed his example; for, alas! I am no longer young, and I begin dimly to perceive the advantage of regular hours. My last glance at Lady Green revealed her simpering, insipid, and somnolent. I got home, staying at a house which had furnished a considerable contingent to a party. I retired to rest, and soon in my dreams Dr. Dryasdust was dancing a reel with Mrs. Totteridge over the Roman atrium, and standing on his head afterwards. I had omitted to close the shutters, and I was aroused, cheerful and refreshed, by the powerful rays of the morning sun. I quickly dressed; and was coming downstairs, when I heard a tumult of multitudinous voices in the garden. It was seven o'clock in the bright morning, and the pic-nic party was only just returning home. Some excuse was alleged on the ground that it was low water, and they could only get the yacht off with the tide. All the responsibility was of course attached to that helpless Lady Green, who was utterly crushed by sea-sickness, and unable to give any lucid account either of herself or of things in general. But since then I have heard astonishing accounts of the love-makings which went on in the charmed summer night, and various "adventures which the liberal stars have winked at;" three several marriages are properly attributable to this particular pic-nic. Among the rest, my gracious little maiden became engaged to the right man, and threw over that Lothario, whom any chaperone except that feeble-minded Lady Green would condemn as bad style.

       That pic-nic was very well in its way. Indeed, I have given it the place of honour. That little love-affair of sweet-natured Bella makes it a kind of landmark for me. But, O, my young friends, what pic-nics are those which came to pass when I was young! The girls are as pretty as ever, but not so stately now as they were then; and as for the men, the old cavalier traits and touches are each day becoming fainter and rarer. "When the summer revellers had gone to their repose, I took my dip in the sea, and then strolled along the beach. I came shortly to a cave which I knew and loved well. In its recess I was sheltered from the scorching sun, and the sea-breeze blew towards me with a gentle violence. The water, even at the highest tide, would hardly come up to the first foot of ground within the cavern; but to those who did not know the place it would seem intercepted by the sea. There I sat down in secure loneliness and mused. First of all, doubtless, about the cavern and its belongings — the stalagmite and the stalactites, the osseous remains, the Celtic drift, the flint instruments, &c.; and speculated whether Adam ever really had a grandfather, who must have lived in such a cavern, and what sort of a grandfather he might be likely to be. And then my mind, by a natural association, wandered away to old pic-nics, forgotten long, but which now recurred with only too faithful recollection. Again old gardens bloomed; again the lilies and roses revived on now faded cheeks; again the corridors of old castles rang with merriment and music; again we trod softly on the lone shrine of a dismantled abbey, or wandered in leafy woods, or sat down, as in this cavern, by the lone remote sea.

       In the scheme and construction of a pic-nic the choice of a locality is of great importance. For there are those whom, like Hamlet, man delights not, nor woman either; those who, like Barzillai, care not for the voice of singing men or singing women; who have yet an educated and attuned sense of scenic loveliness, and can appreciate, with a mind stored with associations, every fragment of historical ruins. Looking back upon my pic-nics, some are conspicuous for personages and incidents; and some, with a less chequered interest, for their locality. It is a lone, sequestered glen, gradually narrowing to a rocky defile, and a waterfall makes its bold leap and shout at the further extremity, and not far off is the sleeping blue of a mountain-shadowed lake; and it is not alone the voice of waters that we hear, but the songs of great poets, who have loved and frequented this scene; men of pure hearts and almost inspired intellects, seem to arise in mystic unison of melody. It is an ancient castle; the keep crowns the crag; the circumvallation of wall is still perfect; still perfect are the gateway and portcullis: the long broad fosse is around it, where the peaceful cattle are now knee-deep in the summer grass. We mark the places where the beeves were roasted whole in the great kitchen; the narrow apertures where the watchers watched for any coming lances glimmering through the cloud of dust; the battlements, manned by the garrison to repulse the escalade; the long corridors, the subterranean chambers, the hidden dungeon, the secret spring of water, which will enable the keep to hold out even if the inner court be taken. Here, we say, was the retiring-room of the ladies, whence they gazed upon the broad prospect from the mountains to the sea; here the pleasaunce, where, in the summer afternoons of long ago, they tried feats of archery, or listened to the song or tale of the minstrel, or watched deeds of prowess among the knights. And now we tell how the castle held out for so many days or weeks against the rude cannon of our ancestors, and was only subdued when some traitor revealed the secret of the spring. Here, too, was the unfortunate earl or prince confined; long years he was confined, and at last he severed the bars of his dungeon and emerged into the sunlight, but only to be cut down by the remorseless guards. Those of our pic-nic party who are familiar with all the pages of Sir Walter — and commend me to those lads and maidens who, in these days of sensational literature, know and love their Scott! — will recall all manner of real and imaginary scenes for which the castle might form a stage. The scene is now an ancient abbey; and we have all lingered late, that we may see the moonlight play upon the buttresses and pillars, according to Sir Walter's fine notion. Many an ancient abbey has looked down upon our revels — rather frowningly perhaps, but not frowning too severely, and with even something of sadness in its impassive gaze. We try to summon up the vanished picture of the past; the Lord Abbot, the Sub-Prior, the Sacristan, and all the sacred train; the resounding music of the chapel choir, gladly heard afar by wandering pilgrim or belated traveller; the good cheer in the refectory; the holy penances in the cells; the crowd of poor or ailing people at the monastery-gate, relieved by hospitable hands, and cheered by godly counsel. And now the king's messengers approach the monastery, and the tramp of armed men is heard in the cloisters, and for the last time, amid tears and sobs, the holy brotherhood hear vespers in their stately choir, before they are driven away into a forgotten and heartless world, and rude hands are laid upon the holy vessels, and dismantle the soaring roof; and the unwilling rustics, who have lost their friends and gained a poor-law, bear away the sacred stones for any sordid purpose; and the hallowed site, with its fertile gardens and sunny meadows, low woods and whispering streams, are conferred on some fawning atheist courtier, or gambled away by a tyrant king at a throw of the dice. He is a happy man who can explain to pensive Jane, or imaginative Constance, something of the history and architecture; can trace out each compartment of the old religious house, and can he learned about pillars and arches, triforia and sedilia. Then again, it is the stately modern palace. A river runs through the lawn-like park, over which are arched the ornamental bridges, and the wide parterre is gorgeous with blooms, and the air heavy-laden with scents, and the vast conservatory is close by, down whose central aisle the Duchess regularly drives her four pet ponies; and there are flower-filled urns, and fountains and cascades, and ornamental waters, with their mimic buildings and miniature fleet; and within the palace is the corridor filled with lines of statues; the gallery, crowded with tiers of pictures; all that affluence and pride of modern life which English wealth and taste can bring together. Then again, once more, a gay water-party, we stand upon the margin of the summer sea, that is now all smiles and dimples, about to launch forth to yonder fairy island, where the basaltic mural precipices make an impregnable fortress, save one inlet strewn with varied shells, on whose sands our keel may grate, where they point a hermit's ruined chapel, where the vast swarms of seafowl cover the rocks, where the lighthouse sheds illumination over the dangerous lee-shore; where again the dance and song and crowned goblets, until the westering sun bids us take to the boat, crowned with flags and flowers,

"Youth at the prow, and Pleasure at the helm,  Unheeding of the sweeping whirlwind's sway,  That hush'd in grim repose awaits its evening prey."

       These are recollections of some old pic-nics, where the localities possessed a beauty and interest of their own, independent of human companionship, and, indeed, possess an undying interest when associated with incidents and characters worthy of such associations. Ah! those old days of courting, in the glad pic-nic times, to which many an honest couple will look back as the very flush and flower of existence in the spring of life and hope! I think there is a freemasonry and honourable understanding at all pic-nics that the pairing lovers are not to be molested and intruded upon by third parties, but rather to be helped and aided by any chance kindnesses we may do them. Sometimes there are such happy and contented eyes that it is not difficult to guess that a favourable éclaircissement has come off in some "bowery hollows," and the world hears afterwards that matters were made up at such and such a pic-nic. The experienced will detect how matters stand in the happy silence, in the long drive homewards in the gloaming; or even obtain ocular evidence by spying out a clasped and unresisting hand. I am strongly of opinion, however, that on such charmed evenings the dowagers ought to keep their eyes to themselves, and allow for a little natural abandon. But sometimes there is a reverse side to this: the lady has been coy, and the stars unpropitious. I cannot forget how young De Burgh swore, and madly called for his horse one afternoon, and galloped off, refused or jilted, and never saw his lady-love again; and Laura looked preternaturally grave the whole evening, and a gloom settled upon all our party. As I have said something of the interest of scenery, let me say something of the human interest, which ranks still higher; and especially let me recal one pic-nic, signalised in a remarkable way, and in which I was not myself altogether unconcerned.

       That was the memorable pic-nic in which Kate Russell eloped with young Lawrence. But there are always two sides to the view we may take of an elopement. It seems at the time very jolly to the lovers; whether it really was so in the long issue is a very different matter; but it was full of consternation to the badly-treated and terrified chaperones, who received on their luckless heads the full vials of parental wrath. It caused also considerable consternation among some very pretty girls, who were promptly interdicted by their mammas from attending any more pic-nics that season; and, generally speaking, the glorious institution of the pic-nic was widely discredited among that set for a long time afterwards, and received a great blow and discouragement. It was very much the fault of the elderly Russells. They allowed young Lawrence to be as intimate as possible at their house, though they knew that he was only an idle law-student, with very problematical chances of getting on at the bar. And when, in the dusk of the autumn afternoon, a little before dinner-time, old Russell, coming home from his office, and letting himself in quietly by his latch-key, had ascended into the drawing-room, he could hardly believe his stolid eyes that they saw young Lawrence's arm carelessly flung round his daughter's neck, with other symptoms of their being on the most confidential terms. Old Russell was in a Government office — pretty high up the tree also, — where, like any other donkey, he had worked mechanically and regularly at the mill, and certainly received abundant fodder in the way of pecuniary oats and hay. If there was one thing he most especially dreaded, it was a young man with uncertain prospects, and destitute of any permanent employment. What was his dismay, therefore, when a remote cousinship had brought to pass an amatory complication at his own home! I certainly think that he failed to make the best of things. Nature intended young men to love and marry, because they are young men, and not because they happen to be clerks in Government offices. Though a long engagement may not, on à priori grounds, be desirable, yet, when the mischief is done, it is not a bad plan to try and make the best of it. Such an engagement will steady a fellow; and if the young woman requires steadying, it will steady her as well. As a rule, even the most hopeless engagements, when maintained with honourable persistence, generally end in a fairly happy marriage. Now old Russell, having naturally a sordid and unhopeful soul, interdicted the love-affair, and forbade Lawrence the house; but what can an old man, with his time and thoughts devoted to the public, do against a young man with his time and thoughts entirely devoted to his lady-love?

       He continued to meet Kate very often in the neighbourhood of the Regent's Park. There are those blissful institutions the Zoological and the Botanical, which, cleverly managed, can prove to be very useful on occasions of emergency. With all the parental vigilance, it was not possible to prevent young Lawrence from turning up at some evening parties, and interchanging words, looks, and notes on staircase and balcony. At this conjuncture of affairs it so happened that Arthur Lawrence suddenly came into possession of a stray five hundred pounds. I feel bound to say that he went, in a most honourable way, to old Russell, and tried to make the most of this sudden flush of affluence. The old gentleman ironically congratulated him, and inquired whether twenty pounds a year, which he pompously described as the "approximate revenue to he derived from the capitalised sum," would he sufficient to keep him in cab-hire. He bowed him out with a kind of grin, unpleasant to contemplate. Then young Lawrence boiled over with rage, and he declared he would marry the girl, and that his despised little fortune should help him to do it.

       There was a pleasant pic-nic to come off in the pleasantest of Kentish woods. It was joy and luxury to leave the dusty London streets for those shaded, overarched lanes of sweet Kent. Colonel and Mrs. Brinckman gave the pic-nic, and invited Miss Russell. Mr. Russell casually asked the Brinckmans if Mr. Arthur Lawrence, of the Temple, was going, and was informed that they were not even aware of the existence of such a young gentleman. Now I myself was to go to this pic-nic and bring my friend Wreford with me. But Wreford did not turn up, as he had had a day's shooting offered him, and, showing himself a being unfit to live, preferred the shooting to the pic-nic. I happened casually to mention this to Lawrence, for the sake of vituperating Wreford, and I noticed that he brightened up immensely when I mentioned the Brinckmans and the pic-nic. He declared that a pic-nic was the ne plus ultra of human enjoyment, and asked if I could get him an invitation. He vaunted his prowess in the composition of lobster salad, and said that he should give himself the pleasure of purveying a salad and a few dozen of champagne to carry out the idea. He was evidently very flush of cash about this time, and insisted on this notion, although I gave very little countenance to it. I was very intimate with Mrs. Brinckman, the dearest of creatures, and wrote her a note, to which I supposed that no answer would be necessary, stating that Wreford had flung me over, but that, relying on her kindness, I proposed to substitute in his place a certain Mr. Arthur Lawrence. Having despatched my missive, I deserted my chambers for ten days and went down to Brighton; but if I had not left them I should have found an answer from dear Mrs. Brinckman, by return of post, saying that any friend of mine in the world would be perfectly welcome, with the solitary and unfortunate exception of Mr. Arthur Lawrence. But this important letter, for such it really was, lay unopened in my London chambers for nearly a fortnight. I returned to town, staying for the night at an hotel in Jermyn Street, where next day Lawrence picked me up, in a remarkably neat chaise and pair, which he insisted on providing, with his normal extravagance, as I considered. Gaily and pleasantly we rattled out of town, and soon emerged on the lovely Kentish landscape. My companion seemed in high spirits, and yet a little excited and nervous. Once or twice it seemed to me that he had something on his mind which he felt half-disposed to confide to me, and once he rather abruptly asked "whether he could rely upon me?" But I do not care for confidences, especially from a man whom I did not really know very well, and merely answered that I was afraid I was not a very reliable kind of individual. We found no difficulty in finding our way to the rendezvous. There were some carriages and a small bucolic group gazing thereupon. I noticed that Mrs. Brinckman changed colour and looked a little surprised when I introduced Arthur Lawrence to her. "Did you not get my note, Mr. Smith?" she quietly woods and gather sticks, to make a really good blaze. With great audacity he offered to indicate to Miss Russell a locality where probably fuel might be found in abundance. I noticed that Mrs. Brinckman observed him rather narrowly, and that she accompanied the young pair in their first stroll through the park. She could not, however, do that sort of thing the whole of the afternoon. Indeed her vigilant eye was wanted in one or two other directions. I recollect, especially, one young couple, who made a reappearance some hours later on, and with great composure proffered two small sticks and a handful of dry leaves as their contribution "towards making the kettle boil."

       But Lawrence gently drew Kate Russell away into the wood, and penetrated still deeper and deeper into its recesses. I have reason to believe that there were some little love-passages between them, but Kate could hardly have been prepared for what was to come. For Arthur told her that he had some very pretty little things to show her, and she was to make her choice of one of them. Then a small jeweller's case was produced, velvety and filled up with much soft padding; whereupon Kate's taper fingers elicited a select assortment of wedding-rings. You may be sure that Kate called Arthur a silly boy, and also, in a sweet moment of reverie, was induced to make trial of the rings, and, as is usually the case, one of them fitted as perfectly as if made on purpose. I wonder if Kate noticed that all the other rings were returned to the case, but that this one was carefully laid aside and deposited in her hero's pocket-book. By and by Arthur asked her if she had any knowledge of law documents, and Kate candidly pleaded ignorance. Lawrence asked her if she would look at one of those wretched parchments among which his life was doomed to be passed at the Inner Temple. Kate, willing to amuse and be amused, said she would like nothing better, and a mystic document was produced, to which a huge seal was appended by a narrow parchment slip, and Kate played with this seal, regarding it in the light of a novel work of art. Then Lawrence insisted that Kate should peruse the document, which she unexpectedly found to be a warm personal greeting from a most reverend prelate to his well-beloved Arthur Lawrence and Katharine Russell. Then the colour mounted rapidly into Kate's face, and "O, Arthur!" she cried, "what is this — and what have you done?" Arthur, with a good deal of apparent contrition, owned that he had actually "been to Doctors' Commons and procured a marriage license on speculation. At this point I am given to believe that Kate certainly manifested some little resentment. "Was she actually to believe," she asked, "that Mr. Lawrence had gone to a public office, and, without her knowledge or consent, had actually filled in her name to a legal document?" But Arthur soothed her with caresses, and bewildered her mind with his sophistries. Had she not promised him, and was she going to deny it now, that she would really be his wife? and was he so greatly to blame if he had acted in simple and entire dependence upon her word? If she would act so ungenerously, he was willing to tear up the license into a thousand pieces. Kate ordered him to tear it up, but rather languidly, and not in that peremptory manner which might perhaps have insured obedience. But she cried a good deal notwithstanding, and gradually this little difficulty was got over. By this time Lawrence had brought her the shortest path through the wood where it abutted on another line of highway distinct from the London road; it appeared afterwards that he had carefully studied the locality. There his carriage and pair were in waiting for him, according to the directions which he had given. "And now, Kate," he said, "jump into this carriage, and come off to he married." Kate nearly fainted away. She was fairly overpowered. She had hardly any capacity of resistance left in her. It would not do, she foolishly thought, to have any altercation before the servants who had charge of the carriage. That passage of arms about the license had almost exhausted her. Lawrence had carried out the maxim frappez fort et frappez vite. Napoleon said that there was a momentous ten minutes in every battle which actually settled the result; and that ten minutes went against poor Kate, during which she was tempted to forgive her lover's unparalleled audacity in procuring the license. She was partly lifted into the carriage, and driven off to a small station, where they caught the express to London. Having purchased a special license, which cost a good deal of money, the marriage could he celebrated almost anywhere or anyhow. Lawrence had arranged every detail with the utmost cleverness and forethought. He afterwards declared that the pic-nic, or something like it, was a necessary part of the arrangement, and that the champagne lunch, with its charming guests, was in reality the wedding breakfast.

       I think it may be granted that the whole plan of this elopement was unusually bold and successful. But still I am not prepared to say that Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence really had the best of things: I think she would have been happier if she had been given away by her father instead of by the beadle, in consideration of half-a-crown of beer-money. And I think the bride sadly missed the lace veil and the orange-blossoms and the bevy of bridesmaids. And this surreptitious breakfast, taken, in fact, under false colours, was not so good as the real thing, with the throng of rejoicing friends, the speeches and bumpers, the prayers, salutations, and ovation, and the old shoes thrown after the white-favoured horses. And that honeymoon at the seaside was, after all, a doubtful and perplexed season; at home anxiety instead of peace, and instead of congratulations and blessings from relations, angry reproaches and recriminations.

       I need hardly say how terribly nervous we got at teatime, when Kate did not appear. It was speedily observed that that very amusing Lawrence did not turn up either; and then a very natural solution suggested itself to the female mind, which was fully confirmed a little later by the arrival of a polite missive to Mrs. Brinckman, and another to myself, both of which Lawrence had thoughtfully composed the night before. Mrs. Brinckman had a great deal too much justice and kindness to be very angry with myself, who might be regarded as an innocent accomplice in the matter (although I found afterwards that some people of a suspicious turn of mind regarded me as a wilful accessory before the fact); but there was a total cessation of all friendly intercourse between themselves and the Russells. Of course I cut Lawrence; but, equally of course, the cut was of no long continuance after he besought me to come and see Mrs. Lawrence at their lodgings in Pimlico. I thought the young lady looked as lovely as that day when she wandered through the Kentish woods. My further intercourse supplied me with further arguments against those] doctrinaires who maintain the theory of elopements. That five hundred pounds rather melted at the outset by an expensive marriage, underwent successive throes of dissolution. Not till it was well-nigh gone, and thoughts of a charcoal fire had passed through Lawrence's romantic brain, did the stony heart of the elderly Russell in any way relent. He then allowed the young pair a hundred a year. Lawrence is now a barrister, too poor to go circuit, doing a little Old Bailey and Sessions business, and making convulsive efforts to effect a standing in the Westminster Courts. You should see how wonderfully polite he is to the solicitors in criminal business — men to whom, at one time of the day, he would not have condescended to speak — and how assiduously he tries to get hold of some of the crown prosecutions. They have children of their own now, which better enables them to take in all the bearings of such a case; and though I do not think that Mr. Lawrence regrets his marriage, I also do not think that he will ever advise his young Arthur, or that Mrs. Lawrence will ever advise her young Kate, to perpetrate an elopement.

       Thus I mused in my sea-girt cavern over the old bygone pic-nics, especially this one, which was more momentous in its personal bearings than any other which I could recollect. To you, my friends, the pleasure of the pic-nic lies chiefly in the anticipation; hut to others among us the charm is in the retrospect. I could quote Aristotle's interpretation of this feeling in his Rhetoric — and indeed his remarks would sound grand enough in Greek. I saunter homewards, with a vague sort of idea that I must put that story of Lawrence's on paper, and thinking that by this time the revellers of last night must have slept off their fatigue. I meet the charming Bella, with her tangled golden hair like a mermaid's, fresh from her hath in the sea, like an Aphrodité Anadyomené. And though she is to "belong to that wealthy squire, she tells me, with laughing lips and eyes, of all the dissipation of the night before, whereat she professes to be greatly horrified. I leave her to set about concocting an article, and to pay a call on Dr. Dryasdust.

       Now I hope the fine ethical aim of this paper will not he overlooked. It has a moral for parents, that they should he lenient, and for chaperones, that they should be vigilant; a moral to young men, not to he rash, and to young ladies, not to he weak; a moral to all, that when anticipations yield to recollections, they should be as pure and unalloyed and unselfish as may be. If the little loves approve of my moralising page,

"Let it go with you, And hear your music on the summer waters."

(THE END)