one of his offspring who was leaving his home by the Black Lake for the first time, and was protesting the whole way in little feeble cries at being taken so far. Slowly and steadily the parent's great wings flapped, and no notice was taken of the young one's despair. Life must be faced and the old bird was weary of catering for the young.

In the evening stillness which followed the cuckoos' chime, and the baby heron's cry, only the weir was heard, till a goatsucker began to whirr and an owl hooted in the ruins. Night sounds! . . . This awoke a memory.

Why do you not write an essay on night sounds?" said the artist, as we all sat cosily reading in the rose-coloured sitting-room.

I thought it a splendid idea, and though the hour was late, I prevailed on the master of the house to leave his armchair, though not his pipe, and we sallied forth, a little company, into the woods.

"We must not speak," I said, "we must only listen."

"This is not a very amusing entertainment," said a voice. "When do the night

sounds begin?"

"Hush! I want you to be enthusiastic. . . . Listen!"

We wended our way to the rookery and sat down in grim silence on a bed of corydalis.

The stillness was supreme, and we all listened intently. . . . Was it a little cold? Perhaps. Thoughts of the snug room and gentle comfort we had left behind began to creep in.

Where were the owls hooting in the ruins? Rabbits scuttling through the bracken? Goatsuckers, moths, bats? Not a leaf broke the stillness of the summer night.

A train rushed through the distant sleeping town.

I felt that some one smiled, but I utterly refused to turn my head. Strange weird sounds would soon pierce the silence, and we should be rewarded for our patience. So we waited. Presently a feeling of a mighty disappointment began to rise in our hearts. The ground was hard. A chilliness filled the air, and the night dew damped our ardour. Nobody spoke, and

at last another sound was heard.

This time a strange weird sound, but

without romance.

It touched no memory,

it awoke no love-dream. A poet could not have turned it into rhyme nor a musician have set it to music.

It was the cough of an asthmatic old sheep.

It

"I think we will go home. It is getting a little late," I said. It would not do to acknowledge we had failed. Then one of the little party whistled in his hands, and an owl answered from the Black Lake. counts for nothing unless the sounds come of their own accord, so I would not allow the owls to be called, and gloomily we wended our way home.

In the end we laughed, at the thought of the sheep, and of all the multitude of sounds which . we did not hear.

Sunshine and shower, grave and gay! What would life be without humour, and the power to rejoice with those who do rejoice, as well as the marvellous sympathy to weep with those who weep which is an easier task.

My Garden of Peace hath a setting which few other gardens have, for so much of interest lies just outside, and you can wander beyond the pale without hat and

gloves, and find yourself in the woods, or by the river, touching the ruins, or in a hop garden; this is what adds to the beauty-the nearness of it all.

Still, at the same time, I am content to stay among my roses."

"You do not wish to wander outside the garden?

"No. It is so lovely here."

"But you said you were glad to know of the land beyond,'

"Yes, but there is no place like home." "I thought I had convinced you at last that your mind needed to be enlarged." "Woman convinced against her will is of the same opinion still.'

Yes, that truism needs no quotation."

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