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hard service for the last five years, or the most expensive and fin-de-siècle of Julie Bond’s art-creations.

The Meads had finally adopted Alice, and allowed her an equal share of constitutional rights, so far as being tyrannized over by them, jointly and severally, could be so called. Mead was in his most conversable mood when he assisted her to mount, but she made good her escape with some slight diplomacy, and had soon left the village, the garden-party, Mrs. Austin’s peculiarities, and the impending meeting with her former friend, full five miles behind her. The sea air was fresh and life-giving; the wet sand stretched out smooth and brittle as glass, and broke under her horse’s hoofs with a pleasant shattering sound. Alice felt the comfort of being alone, and of no longer keeping up appearances. She knew this mood of depression would pass away all the sooner if she could meet it alone. After a time she left the beach and turned inland, taking a path through a little valley filled to the brim with rye grass just ready for cutting, which rolled before the summer wind in glossy corrugated waves, and changed like a pigeon’s breast in all shades of ripening brown as it moved in the sun. Under the surface of the hayfield large moon-daisies were floating,