unday Meditations.—When we first saw this place we called it The House of Good Intentions. It recurs to me forcibly at this moment, as I look over my note-book.

Under the heading of “Operanda,” or Works to be done, I find:—

1. Continuation of Typical Developments. Vol. III.
2. A Guide to Hertfordshire.
3. A Lesser Dictionary of French words not generally found in other Lexicographical compilations.
4. Theories on Dew. Practical utilitarian results.
5. A Commentary on hitherto obscure portions of Shakespeare's plays, with a life of the Great Poet, gathered from obiter dicta, which nobody has, up to this time, noticed.
6. “All Law founded upon Common Sense,” being a few steps towards the abolition of technicalities and antique repetitions in our legal proceedings.
7. Pendant to the above, “Every man his own lawyer and somebody else's.”
8. Studies in the Country. I thought I should have been able to write a good deal in this line while at the country-house. This was to include botany, farming, agriculture generally, with a resumption of what I took up years ago, as a Happy Thought, namely, “Inquiries into, and Observations upon, the Insect World.”

Nothing of all this have I done. Not a line. It is afternoon. We have most of us been to Church in the morning, except Boodels and Chilvern. Those who have not been, gave the following reasons for arriving at the same conclusion.

Boodels' reason. That he had a nasty headache, and should not get up. [This he sent down to say at breakfast.]

Milburd's reason. That the weather looked uncommonly like rain. That to get wet going to Church is a most dangerous thing, as you have to sit in your damp clothes. My own statement on the subject. Milburd has puzzled me by saying it's going to rain. Is it? If it isn't, nothing I should enjoy more than going to Church. Wouldn't miss it on any account, except of course out of consideration for one's health.

Happy Thought.—I don't feel very well this morning, and damp feet might be followed by the most serious results.

Miss Adelaide and Miss Bella are going. Their chaperonship this morning devolves upon Mrs. Frimmely, as Madame and the Signor are Catholics, and have been to mass, early in the morning, at St. Romauldi's Missionary College, near here. Madame is very strict, and the Signor is not partial to early rising. The College Service being at half-past eight in the morning, they have to rise at seven on Sundays, and then there is a drive of four miles. The following dialogue is overheard:

Time, 7.15 A.M. Scene, Signor and Madame's room. Madame is up and dressing rapidly. The Signor is still under the bedclothes.

Madame (severely). Mr. Regniati.

The Signor (pretending extra sleepiness). My dear! (He won't open his eyes.)

Madame. It is exactly a quarter past seven. The Signor (snuggling down into the pillow). I vill not be two me-neets. (Disappears under bedclothes.)

Madame (before the looking-glass, with her head bent well forward, her hands behind her back, lacing herself into determination). Get up, Mr. Regniati. (No sign of life in the bed.) Don't pretend to have gone to sleep again. (Not a movement.) I know you haven't. I shan't wait for you when I'm once dressed. It's twenty-five minutes. (Sharply.) Do you hear, Mr. Regniati?

The Signor (re-appearing as far as the tip of his nose. Both eyes blinking). My dear—oh! (as if in sudden agony. Then plaintively) I 'ave such a pain in my nose.

Madame (backhairing energetically). Fiddlesticks.

The Signor (in an injured tone). Oh! Vy you say zat? You know I do sof-far from my nose—and my head ache all...

Madame (coming to a dead stop in her toilette). Mr. Regniati, you eat and drink too much.

The Signor (as if horrified at lying under such an imputation, but showing no disposition to rise with the occasion). Oh! My Jo! (appealing to abstract justice in the bed-curtains.) Good-ness knows (he pronounces it ‘Good-ness-knows’) I eat no-sing at-all. Madame (coming to the point). Mr. Regniati, I can't finish my dressing if you stop there.

The Signor (bestirring himself with as much dignity as is possible under the circumstances). I go. Vere is my leet-tel slip-pers? (Protesting) I shall catch my dets of cold. (He finds them.)

Madame. Now, Mr. Regniati, make haste, or we shall be late. (Shuts his dressing-room door on him.)

In about a quarter of an hour after this, the carriage is announced, and the Signor is hurried down stairs.

The Signor (complaining). Oh! I am so ongry. (Procrastinating.) Ve 'ave time to take som-sing to eat, be-fore zat ve...

Madame (cutting him short). Nonsense, Mr. Regniati. If you wanted to stuff, you should have got up earlier.

Mr. Regniati. Stoff! (Protests.) My Jo! I do not stoff! (Unhappily.) I 'ave no-sing in...

Madame (ascetically). A little abstinence will do you good. Come.

Exeunt Madame, attended by the Signor. Carriage drives off.

Mrs. Orby Frimmely, whose new things came down yesterday—latest Parisian mode—the two Misses Cherton, Miss Medford, Captain Byrton, Chilvern, Cazell, are the Church party.

Mr. Orby Frimmely, having been busy in the City all the week, is what he calls “taking it out” in bed on Sunday morning. He emphatically asserts his position (a horizontal one), and with religious fervour claims Sunday as a day of rest.

Being uncertain of the weather I remain at home with Milburd.

Milburd shifts the responsibility on to my shoulders by saying, “I'll go if you'll go.”

Hesitation.

Happy Thought. Wait and see what the weather is like.

At a quarter to eleven (service is at eleven) the weather is like nothing particular.

10.50. A gleam of sunshine. We watch it. The Signor, to whom the weather is of consequence, as he intends walking to the nearest farm on a visit of inspection to some rather fine pigs, remarks, “It vill 'old-up. Ven de sun shine now, it shine all day.”

Milburd doesn't think so. My opinion is that these rays are treacherous.

10.55. First appearance of genuine blue sky. Peal of bells stopped, and one only going now. The last call. More hesitation, I ask Milburd what he thinks of it. Milburd, in an arm-chair before fire and the “Field” newspaper in his hand, says “that he doesn't know what to make of it.” Further hesitation.

Eleven. Cessation of all bells. Sudden silence everywhere. Sky bright and blue. Sun out.

Happy Thought.—If we'd only known this we might have gone to church.

Milburd (from behind the “Field”). “Yes. It's too late now.”

The Signor has started with Jenkyns Soames (who is of some philosophic form of religion, in which long walks and gymnastics play leading parts), for the Piggeries.

Of Boodels nothing has been seen, or heard, since his first message.

Mr. Orby Frimmely, under the impression that the ladies have disappeared from the scene, descends in his lounging coat, and breakfasts alone. After this he lights a cigar, and makes himself useful in the conservatory.

Madame is walking in the garden, enjoying the winter sun's warmth, and reading.

From my room I can see her. She comes pacing majestically right underneath my window. Her book is the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius.

I pause....

Then .... My Pens!.... I write