IT was a lovely afternoon on the last day of May.

The sea and all the toil and travail belonging to it was overpass, and Judge Rawdon, Ruth and Ethel were driving in lazy, blissful contentment through one of the lovely roads of the West Riding.

On either hand the beautifully cut hedges were white and sweet, and a caress of scent--the soul of the hawthorne flower enfolded them.

Robins were singing on the topmost sprays, and the linnet's sweet babbling was heard from the happy nests in its secret places; while from some unseen steeple the joyful sound of chiming bells made music between heaven and earth fit for bands of traveling angels.
They had dined at a wayside inn on jugged hare, roast beef, and Yorkshire pudding, clotted cream and haver (oaten) bread, and the careless stillness of physical well-being and of minds at ease needed no speech, but the mutual smiling nod of intimate sympathy.

For the sense of joy and beauty which makes us eloquent is far inferior to that sense which makes us silent.
This exquisite pause in life was suddenly ended by an exclamation from the Judge.