The ladies left the house and joined the group of holiday-seekers, who were all going in the direction of the Rectory.  When they reached the festive scene, the grounds were already thronged.  Mr. Ingram was very proud of his gardens and smoothly-kept lawns.  He hated to see his velvet swards trampled on and made bare by the tread of many feet.  He disliked the pet flowers in his greenhouses being pawed and smelt, and his trim ribbon borders being ruthlessly despoiled.  But on the day of the annual treat he forgot all these prejudices.  The lawns, the glass-houses, the flower-beds, might and would suffer, he cared not.  He was giving supreme pleasure to human flowers, and for two days out of the three hundred and sixty-five they were free to do as they liked with the vegetable kingdom over which on every other day he reigned as monarch supreme.  Marquees now dotted the lawns, and one or two brass bands played rather shrill music.  There were tennis-courts and croquet lawns, and fields set aside for archery.  Luxurious seats, with awnings over them, were to be found at every turn, and as the grass was of the greenest here, the trees of the shadiest, and the view of the blue harbor the loveliest, the Rector’s place, on the day of the feast, appeared to more than one enthusiastic inhabitant of Northbury just like fairyland.

Matty Bell thought so, as, accompanied by her sisters and mother she stepped into the enchanted ground.  The girls were in white to-day, not well made, and very bunchy and thick of texture.  But still the dresses were white, and round each modest waist was girdled a sash of virgin blue.

“It makes me almost weep to look at the dear children,” whispered Mrs. Bell to her husband.  “They look so innocent and lamb-like, more particularly Matty.”

Here she sighed profoundly.

“I don’t see why you should single out Matty,” retorted the spouse.  “She’s no more than the others, as far as I can see, and Sophy has the reddest cheeks.”

“That’s all you know,” said Mrs. Bell.  Here she almost shook herself with disdain.  “Well, Peter, I often do wonder what Pas are for—­not for observation, and not for smoothing a girl’s path, and helping an ardent young lover.  Oh, no, no!”

“Helping an ardent young lover, Tilly!  Whatever are you talking about?  Where is he?  I don’t see him.”

“You make me sick, Peter.  Hold your tongue, do, and believe your wife when she says that’s about all you are good for.  Matty’s on the brink, and that’s the truth.”

Poor Bell looked as mystified as he felt.  Presently he slunk away to enjoy a quiet smoke with some congenial spirits in the coal trade, and Mrs. Bell marshalled her girls to as prominent a position as she could find.

It was her object to get on the terrace.  The terrace was very broad, and ran not only the length of the front of the house, but a good way beyond at either side.  At each end of the terrace was a marquee, decorated with colored flags, and containing within the most refined order of refreshments.  On the terrace were many seats, and the whole place was a blaze of gay dresses, brilliant flowers, and happy, smiling faces.