For some reason or other the spirits of our driving party seemed steadily rising. It was simply impossible to put anybody out of humor, no matter what happened. Everything was lovely and just as it should be, even to the pelting showers that came down with such swift suddenness as to almost soak them through before they could get under cover of waterproofs and umbrellas, and then a moment after left them stranded in brilliant sunshine, fairly steaming within the rubber coats which, with much difficulty, had but just been adjusted. Indeed, every day seemed more full of enjoyment than the one that preceded it and to call for more enthusiasm. If any one had asked Mr. Harris, for instance, how he accounted for this, he would probably have laughed good-naturedly at the question, and answered: “Why, easily enough! How could it be otherwise with this glorious weather, this beautiful country, and our jolly little party!” But the real secret of what made the party so jolly was, in fact, quite beyond Mr. Harris’s ability to divine. The real secret lay with Marie-Celeste and Dorothy in the good news that had been committed to their keeping; and, strange to say, it seemed to mean as much to Dorothy, who was no relation of Theodore’s, as to Marie-Celeste, who was. As a result, they were both brimming over with fun and merriment; and as there is, fortunately, nothing in the world more contagious than good spirits, the other members of the party were equally merry without in the least knowing why. Even Mr. Farwell, who had simply been invited to fill up and because he was a friend of Mr. Harris’s, fell under the spell, and bloomed out in a most surprising and delightful manner, and by the time the first week was over felt as though he had known them all all his life, and, indeed, very much regretted that such was not in truth the case.

From the Waterhead Hotel, at Coniston, the plan had been laid to retrace their way a few miles over the same road by which they had come from Windermere, make a stop for two or three hours at the Rothay Hotel, and then drive on to Keswick that same afternoon. But just as they were rolling into Grasmere, the off-leader, with the total depravity peculiar to animal nature, struck the only stone visible within a hundred yards on that perfect roadway, laming himself instantly and in most pronounced fashion. This chanced to be the first mishap; but then could you really call an accident a mishap that simply necessitated a three-days’ stay in the beautiful Wordsworth district? Our sunshiny little party, at any rate, chose not so to regard it, and scoured the whole lovely region on foot, reading Wordsworth’s poetry in their halts by the roadside, and growing familiar with every foot of the lanes he so dearly loved. Not content with their morning spent in the Grasmere Church, and beside his grave in the little churchyard without, they even made their wav to Wordsworth’s old home—beautiful Rydal Mount—hoping, on the strength of a card of introduction to the gentleman residing there, to possibly be allowed to see the house. The gentleman, however, when they presented themselves at his door, politely bowed them out instead of in, and they were fain to content themselves with the lesser privilege of inspecting the prettily terraced garden.

When, after the three days’ rest, the off-leader had been coaxed into proper driving condition, they started off once more, but rather late in the afternoon, planning to take things in quite leisurely fashion, out of regard for the same off-leader, and depending upon the wonderful English twilight to bring them into Keswick before ten o’clock. It happened to be a local holiday in Cumberland, and as a result here and there they encountered a solitary specimen of humanity prone upon his back or his face, just as it chanced, by the roadside, or, not quite so badly off as that, reeling along to wherever home might be in that apparently houseless region. At six o’clock, on one of the highest points on the road that leads to Keswick, they stopped at the Nag’s Head, a typical roadside inn, for supper, the sounds of revelry in whose tap-room at once accounted for the sorry customers they had met upon the road before they reached it. It was exceedingly interesting to the American contingent of the party to gain a little insight into the life of the English “navvies;” and they passed the little tap-room, reeking with smoke and smelling of pipes and beer mugs, rather more often than circumstances would warrant, for the sake of looking in on the jolly fellows, and catching a sentence or so of their almost unintelligible dialect. A truce to all this, however, for fear you should imagine, and with reason, that even at this late stage I am going to fare so wide of my province of story-teller as to conduct you in guide-book fashion through the counties of Westmoreland and Cumberland. But, nevertheless, up to this same Nag’s Head Inn we simply had to come, because some one else, in whom we have an interest, is coming there too as fast as a good road-horse can carry him. It seems that opposite the Nag’s Head Inn the Church of England has built a tiny edifice, and as though to apologize for the apparent unreasonableness of building any church there whatsoever, they have made a most miniature affair of it. A placard suspended within proclaims the fact that it is the smallest church in all England, and beneath it a contribution-box, of dimensions out of all proportion to the surroundings, invites spare shillings for the maintenance of the lonely little parish.

The peculiar isolation of the place appeals to the average tourist in most pathetic fashion, and no sooner have our friends of the driving party crowded within the diminutive door than Mr. Harris, hat in hand, commences to take up a collection, with a view to making a radical addition to the contents of the roomy contribution-box. Just as he is conclu............