Doris arrived at home rather early. What with the emotions of the day,
the heat, and her work, she was strangely tired and over-done. After tea
she strolled out into Kensington Gardens, and sat under the shade of
trees already autumnal, watching the multitude of children--children of
the people--enjoying the nation's park all to themselves, in the
complete absence of their social betters. What ducks they were, some of
them--the little, grimy, round-faced things--rolling on the grass, or
toddling after their sisters and brothers. They turned large,
inquisitive eyes upon her, which seemed to tease her heart-strings.

And suddenly,--it was in Kensington Gardens that out of the heart of a
long and vague reverie there came a flash--an illumination--which wholly
changed the life and future of Doris Meadows. After the thought in which
it took shape had seized upon her, she sat for some time motionless;
then rising to her feet, tottering a little, like one in bewilderment,
she turned northwards, and made her way hurriedly towards Lancaster
Gate. In a house there, lived a lady, a widowed lady, who was Doris's
godmother, and to whom Doris--who had lost her own mother in her
childhood--had turned for counsel before now. How long it was since she
had seen "Cousin Julia"!--nearly two months. And here she was, hastening
to her, and not able to bear the thought that in all human probability
Cousin Julia was not in town.

But, by good luck, Doris found her godmother, perching in London between
a Devonshire visit and a Scotch one. They talked long, and Doris walked
slowly home across the park. A glory of spreading sun lay over the
grassy glades; the Serpentine held reflections of a sky barred with
rose; London, transfigured, seemed a city of pearl and fire. And in
Doris's heart there was a glory like that of the evening,--and, like the