Brooke, breaking an awkward pause. Brooke laid his book on her lap with an inviting smile. Meg obediently following the long grassblade which her new tutor used to point with, read slowly and timidly, unconsciously making poetry of the hard words by the soft intonation of her musical voice. If she had seen the brown eyes then, she would have stopped short, but she never looked up, and the lesson was not spoiled for her. Brooke, as she paused, quite ignoring her many mistakes, and looking as if he did indeed love to teach. Brooke, busily punching holes in the turf. Brooke rather bitterly as he absently put the dead rose in the hole he had made and covered it up, like a little grave. Is it a donkey? Frank, sitting just behind the little girls, heard what they were saying, and pushed his crutch away from him with an impatient gesture as he watched the active lads going through all sorts of comical gymnastics. An impromptu circus, fox and geese, and an amicable game of croquet finished the afternoon. At sunset the tent was struck, hampers packed, wickets pulled up, boats loaded, and the whole party floated down the river, singing at the tops of their voices. Ned, getting sentimental, warbled a serenade with the pensive refrain. Woe, alone, and at the lines. He was in one of his moods, for the day had been both unprofitable and unsatisfactory, and he was wishing he could live it over again. Staring up into the green gloom of the horsechestnut trees above him, he dreamed dreams of all sorts, and was just imagining himself tossing on the ocean in a voyage round the world, when the sound of voices brought him ashore in a flash. Each wore a large, flapping hat, a brown linen pouch slung over one shoulder, and carried a long staff. All walked quietly through the garden, out at the little back gate, and began to climb the hill that lay between the house and river. Perhaps they forgot it. Taking the shortest way to the boathouse, he waited for them to appear, but no one came, and he went up the hill to take an observation.