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Dr. Carlyon coaxed Betsy out of the hedge, produced a book, and on they went again. It was really very lovely; the sun was shining, but the breeze was cool and soft, and the larks were singing and soaring up, up, up, till nothing was left of them but their voices; then down, down, down, with a swoop and a flutter, until they were so low that the children could see them hovering and darting like big brown musical butterflies. The scent of clover wafted out from the fields, and of honeysuckle from the hedges.

“Oh, I am so glad I was born,” exclaimed Priscilla, with a deep-drawn sigh of satisfaction.

Dr. Carlyon smiled.

“I hope you will always say the same, and in that same voice, Prissy,” he said. “Now, what shall we read? I have the ‘Ingoldsby Legends’ here; shall I read to you about the Babes in the Wood?”

“Please,” said Priscilla.

She wondered a little that her father should have chosen anything so babyish. He brought out all kinds of books and papers to read to her, but they were always grown-up books and papers, and, as I said before, Priscilla very often did not understand them. But to-day it was quite thrilling and fascinating, and Priscilla listened with a face of deepest sympathy and not a smile, as she heard of the poor dying parents, and the woes of the hapless children.