My lady's lawn is splashed with shade
All intertwined with sun,
And strayingly beneath the boughs
Their tapestry is spun,
For the angel hands of summer-time
Have woven them in one.
My lady's lawn is wrapped with peace,
Its life throbs sweet and strong.
Caressingly across its breast
The laughing breezes throng,
And the angel wings of summer-time
Have touched it into song.

"Thank you," said Lady Chantrey. "I feel so honoured, you know, to have my little garden immortalised in verse."

The poet wrapped up his papers and restored them to his pocket, with a smile.

"Not immortalised, Lady Chantrey," he replied modestly, "not even described—only, if I may say so, appreciated."

From her invalid chair, in the shade, Lady Chantrey looked out over the lawn, sunny and fragrant, a sweet foreground to the wide hills beyond.

She turned to the poet with something like a sigh.

"I wonder why it is that we fortunate ones are so few," she said. "Why we few should be allowed to drown ourselves in all this beauty, that so many can only dream about. It would almost seem a waste of earth's good things."

The poet was silent.

"After all, they can dream—the others, I mean," he said, presently.

"But never attain."

"It is good that they know it is all here—somewhere."

Lady Chantrey lay back in her chair.

"I wish I could give it to them," she said, opening her hands. "I wish I could give it to them, but I am so stupid, and weak, and poor;—you can."

"I?" stammered the poet.

She looked at him, with bright eyes.

"You have the gift," she said. "You can at any rate minister to their dreams."

"But nobody reads poetry, and I—I do not write for the crowd."

She shook her head.

"I think everybody reads poetry," she said, "and I think, in every house, if one could but find it, there is some line or thought or dream, if you will, cut out, long since, and guarded secretly—and more, read—read often, as a memory, perhaps only as a dream, but, for all that, a very present help—I would like to be the writer of such a poem."

"It would certainly be gratifying," assented the poet.

"It would be worth living for."

The poet looked at her gravely—at the sweet-lined face, and the white hair, and tired grey eyes.

"Do you know, Lady Chantrey," he said, "you always give me fresh inspiration. I—I wonder—"

But what the poet wondered was only the wonder, I suppose, of all writers of all ages, and, in any case, it was not put into words, for across the lawn came a rustle of silk and muslin, heralding visitors, and the poet became busy about tea-cups and cream.

Though physical weakness, and want of means, prevented Lady Chantrey from entertaining to any large extent, yet I doubt if any woman in the county was more really popular than this gentle hostess of Becklington Hall; for Lady Chantrey was of those who had gained the three choicest gifts of suffering—sweetness and forbearance and sympathy.

Such as Lady Chantrey never want for friends, for indeed they give, I fancy, more than they receive.

On this sunny afternoon several groups were dotted about the cool lawns of Becklington, when Tommy and Madge came tea-wards from the cave.

Lady Chantrey beckoned them to her side.

"I am so glad to see you again, Tommy," she said. "You never come to see me now. I suppose old women are poor company."

"I wish they were all like you," said Tommy, squatting upon the grass at her feet.

Then he remembered a question he had meant to ask her,

"I say, Lady Chantrey, who's living at the Grange?"

She shook her head.

"I don't know, Tommy. I heard that your guardian had let it—it was your father's wish, you know—but I did not know the tenants had arrived."

"Oh, Lady Chantrey, there's a boy there, an' he's such an awful cad."

"Cad?" echoed Lady Chantrey, questioningly.

"He—he isn't one little atom of a gentleman."

"And therefore a cad?"

Tommy coloured.

"He's an awful bounder, Lady Chantrey."

Everybody was busy in conversation, and Lady Chantrey laid a frail hand on Tommy's shoulder—then,

"Tommy," she said in a low voice, "a gentleman never calls anyone a cad—for that reason. It implies a comparison, you see."

Tommy blushed furiously, and looked away.

"I—I'm awful sorry. Lady Chantrey," he mumbled.

"Tell me about your holidays," she said.

A servant stepped across the lawn to Lady Chantrey's chair followed by a stout lady, in red silk.

"Mrs. Cholmondeley," she announced.

"And how do you do, my dear Lady Chantrey? Feeling a little stronger, I hope. Ah, that's very delightful. Isn't it too hot for anything? I have just been calling at the dear Earl's—Lady Florence is looking so well—"

Mrs. Cholmondeley swept the little circle gathered about the tea-table with a quick glance. It is good to have the Earl on one's visiting list.

Her eyes rested on Mollie Gerald, pouring out tea, and she turned to Lady Chantrey:

"Is that the young person who has been so successful with your daughter's music, Lady Chantrey?"

Mollie's cheeks were scarlet, as she bent over the tea-pot, for Mrs. Cholmondeley's lower tones were as incisive as her ordinary voice was strident.

"Yes, that is my friend, Miss Gerald," said Lady Chantrey, smiling at Mollie.

Mrs. Cholmondeley continued a diatribe upon governesses.

"You never know, dear Lady Chantrey, who they may be. So many of them are so exceedingly—"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"I have been very fortunate," said Lady Chantrey.

Tommy wandered up with some cake, which he offered to Mrs. Cholmondeley, who smiled graciously.

"And who is this?" she asked.

Lady Chantrey explained.

"Not the poor colonel's heir?"

Lady Chantrey nodded.

"Really; how interesting—how are you, my dear?"

"All right," said Tommy, in obvious good health.

"This is Mrs. Cholmondeley, of Barnardley."

Tommy looked interested.

"I've heard about you from Mrs. Chundle," he said. "She's a sort of relation of yours, derived from the same lot, you know."

Mrs. Cholmondeley looked a little bewildered, and the poet patently nervous.

"Really I—"

"She's an awful good sort—Mrs. Chundle. She's the poet's housekeeper—so I expect she has to work for her living, you know."

The poet gasped.

"It's—it's all a mistake," he stammered, but not before Mrs. Cholmondeley had turned a violent purple, and a smile had travelled round the little ring of visitors.

All at once Tommy became aware that somehow things had gone wrong and retreated hastily from the lawn, seeking the refuge of the cave among the laurels, and in a minute or two, the poet, with a murmured pretext about a view, also vanished.

Tommy wandered disconsolately down the flagged path between the bushes, ruminating upon the strange contrariness of affairs on this chequered afternoon.

Near the arbour in the laurels Miss Gerald met him.

Her eyes were dancing.

"O, Tommy, you celestial boy," she cried.

Tommy was doubtful of the adjective, but the tone was certainly one of approbation, and he looked modestly at the path.

"You're a perfect young angel," proceeded Miss Gerald, enthusiastically, "and I'd kiss you only I suppose you wouldn't like it."

Tommy looked at her, dubiously.

"I shouldn't very much," he observed, but chivalry stepped manfully to the fore, and he turned a brown cheek towards her.

"You can if you like, you know," he added, looking resignedly across the valley.

She stooped and dropped a kiss upon his cheek.

"You're the very broth of a boy," she said, as she ran back to the house.

Presently the laurels rustled, and the poet stole out into the pathway.

Tommy was disappearing into a sidewalk, and the poet looked after him with a curious expression.

"O you incomprehensible person," said he.