“It is most mysterious.  Both Cecilia and George, being left orphans so early, were brought up by my dear sister Henrietta.  She was a believing Christian, and no children ever had greater religious advantages than these two.  As soon as they could speak they learnt hymns or texts of Scripture, and before they could read they knew whole chapters of the Bible by heart.  George even now, I will say that for him, knows his Bible better than a good many clergymen.  And the Sabbath, too.  They were taught to reverence the Lord’s day in a way children never are nowadays.  All games and picture-books put away on Saturday night; regularly to church morning and afternoon, and in the evening Henrietta would talk to them and question them about the sermon.  And after all, here is George who says he believes in nothing; and as to Cecilia, I never can make out what she does or does not believe.  However, I am quite happy in my mind about them.  I feel they are of the elect.  I am as certain of their salvation as I am of my own.”

A sudden scampering of feet upon the gravel was followed by the appearance of the boys, rosy with exercise and excitement.

“Well, my darling boys, have you had your cream?”

“Oh yes, Aunt Eleanour,” cried Harold, “and we have been into the farm-yard and seen the little pigs.  Such jolly little beasts, Mr. Lyndsay, and squeak so funnily when you pull their tails.”

“Oh, but I can’t have my pigs unkindly treated.”

“Not unkindly, auntie,” cried Denis, swinging affectionately upon my arm; “we only just tried to make their tails go straight, you know.  And, Mr. Lyndsay, there is such a dear little baby calf.”

“But I want to give apples to the horses,” cried Harold.

So we went to the fruit-house for apples, which Mrs. Mostyn herself selected from an upper shelf, mounting a ladder with equal agility and grace; then to the stables, where these dainties were crunched by two very fat carriage-horses; then to the miniature farm-yard, and the tiny ivy-covered dairy beyond; and just as I was beginning to feel the first qualms of my besetting humiliation, fatigue, Mrs. Mostyn led us round to the garden—­a garden with high red walls, and a dial in the meeting-place of the flower-bordered paths; and we sat down in a rustic seat cosily fitted into one sunny corner, just behind a great bed of hyacinths in flower.

The children had but one regret:  Tip had been left behind.

“But mamma would not let us bring him,” cried Harold in an aggrieved tone, “because he will roll in the flower-beds.”

“Do you think it is nearly half-past four, Aunt Eleanour?” asked Denis.

“Very nearly, I should think.  Suppose you were to go and see if they have brought the tea-kettle in; and if they have, call to me from the drawing-room window, and I will come.”