spring dawn in the park--the traditional spot could be seen from
where Ursula Winwood was sitting.

Ursula and her brother were proud of the romantic episode, and would
relate it to guests and point out the scene of the duel. Happy and
illusory days of Romance now dead and gone! It is not conceivable
that, generations hence, the head of a family will exhibit with
pride the stained newspaper cuttings containing the unsavoury
details of the divorce case of his great-great-grandmother.

This aspect of family history seldom presented itself to Ursula
Winwood. It did not do so this mellow and contented afternoon.
Starlings mindful of a second brood chattered in the old walnut
trees far away on the lawn; thrushes sang their deep-throated
bugle-calls; finches twittered. A light breeze creeping up the
avenue rustled the full foliage languorously. Ursula Winwood closed
her eyes. A bumble-bee droned between visits to foxglove bells near
by. She loved bumble-bees. They reminded her of a summer long ago
when she sat, not on this seat--as a matter of fact it was in the
old walled garden a quarter of a mile away--with a gallant young
fellow's arms about her and her head on his shoulder. A bumble-bee
had droned round her while they kissed. She could never hear a
bumble-bee without thinking of it. But the gallant young fellow had
been killed in the Soudan in eighteen eighty-five, and Ursula
Winwood's heart had been buried in his sandy grave. That was the
beginning and end of her sentimental history. She had recovered from
the pain of it all and now she .Loved the bumble-bee for invoking
the exquisite memory. The lithe Sussex spaniel crept farther on her
lap and her hand caressed his polished coat. Drowsiness
disintegrated the exquisite memories. Miss Ursula Winwood fell