The English who attempt to put off even a little of the quaint armour of righteousness, which they have been accustomed to buckle on every seventh day for so many generations, are not so successful in the attempt as to attract many to follow them.

They are not graceful in their holiday gambols.
Meditating somewhat on this wise I lay in my long chair by the open door that Sunday morning in September.

It was a little warmer again and the sun shone pleasantly across the lawn on the great branches and bright leaves of the rhododendron.

The house was very quiet.

All the inmates were gone to the church on the mall, and the servants were basking in the last few days of warmth they would enjoy before their masters returned to the plains.