design, that they would obtain prizes in any Exhibition in Europe. Burton mentions arrow-heads of great size and weight, but those I have seen are spear-heads. Spearmen seem to have played a considerable part in the strife. Look that my staves be sound and not

Entrance into Market-Bosworth, on the road from the Battle-field.

too heavy' are Richard's words on the night before the battle, as he went to his broken sleep. Sir Thomas More, who knew him well, says that he was troubled with frightful dreams, and rather slumbered than slept,' and it was not unusual for him to start

6

up and run about his chamber, so that the ghosts he sees in Shakespeare Let me lie heavy on thy soul to-morrow '—were only in keeping with his usual way of life. But the incidents and details of this interesting chapter in history are so numerous that a goodly book might be filled with them, and many which I had hoped to narrate must be omitted for want of space. From the battle-field to Bosworth is a distance of about three miles. We went there early on a fine September morning, and returned to the Dixie Arms,' an excellent country inn. In this instance the hostelry is resorted to every week on corn-market days by wealthy farmers, or at any rate by the class of farmers who used to be wealthy; and, as there is a demand for good accommodation, be sure it is not long in forthcoming, Indeed, I hope it will not be necessary to apologise if, in pursuance of my plan, I say that only one more instance is afforded of the aptitude of Englishmen to manage an inn if only customers will give them a chance. We had fairly good black tea, a dish of unmistakable Leicester chops excellently well broiled, the freshest of eggs and of butter, and watercress, all in a comfortable parlour, for the sum of one shilling and ninepence each, though there were only two of us; and it would be very interesting to hear what those who continually praise a Paris breakfast would say to this. Let them bring a similar bill of fare, served in a private room, and say honestly what they paid, even granting, at the expense of probability and of the Leicestershire farmers, that they would have chops of an equal quality.

The road from Bosworth to the battle-field skirts Bosworth parish, and is very beautiful. It is quite probable that the traveller may not meet a rustic between the market town and Sutton, a distance of two miles. The view given on the previous page of the entrance into Market-Bosworth is characteristic of the whole road, and many a scene there is that Gainsborough would have gloried in. That Bosworth has more attractions and fascinations for Englishmen than any of the other twelve cruel battles of the Roses may be due to the fact that it closed the struggle, and ended in the death of a King whose name has for centuries been a byword for cruelty; and perhaps, though we do not recognise it now so fully, there were those who had arrived at manhood when the battle of St. Albans was fought, and who were only in the prime of life when all the hurly-burly was done, who could count the loss of their countrymen at Bosworth as being much less than half that of the least of the thirteen battles of the rival houses.

MRS. ULLATHORNE's drawing-room was certainly a very agreeable room at any time, and doubly so now that she herself was not occupying it. The sun shone pleasantly through the three large south windows which looked on the square, and the back drawing-room was made cheerful by a glimpse of the tops of some fine old sycamore trees which grew with quite majestic dignity in the long strip of garden at the back of the house. The spring had been wet and cold, so no one had the heart to shut out a single ray of sunshine, or fragment of clear sky. Olive was sitting in a low chair by the window reading her Aunt Selina's last new novel. All for love of her Olive was reading it; for, though it had just come out, she had read it, and copied it, and heard it read aloud, until she could almost have repeated the whole three volumes by heart. Olive's dress was very pretty, and made of some faint white Indian stuff trimmed with old gold satin. The sun flickered on this and illuminated soft warm patches, and filled every fold with reflected light, and caught the tawny satin and made it burn with a new richness, or rested on Olive herself, lending depth to the splendour of her dark eyes, and heightening the delicacy of her wonderfully delicate complexion. She was rather sad. She had, as it would seem, everything the world could give her, but she felt suddenly cut off from the companionship of all who loved her. They were few in number, certainly; but Dr. Brooke had always been as loving to her as a father, and Mrs. Brooke, in spite of her absurdities, was a very kind-hearted good woman, and intensely fond of Olive whenever she had time to think of her. Now, though she was with her own mother, she did not feel half so much at home as she had done with her uncle and aunt. Lady Brooke was polite, always kindly ready to take an interest in anything which concerned Olive, but she never went beyond this-never showed more affection than she

might have felt for a pleasant visitor. In point of fact, Olive felt very much like a visitor, and had difficulty in believing that she was the daughter of the pretty lady who was now her daily companion. She constantly found herself imagining a time when this unreal existence—this life of dressing and gaiety-would come to an end, and she would be at home again with her dear uncle and aunt, and would look on this visit to Lady Brooke as a dream. So far as it went, it was a very pleasant dream. They had spent nearly two months in perpetually dressing for different kinds of entertainments. Gay luncheons had been swiftly followed by garden parties or afternoon concerts; dinner-parties had been squeezed in between balls and soirées; operas, theatres, and lawn-tennis parties had been enjoyed whenever a spare hour or so could be found for them. How much of their lives during the last eight weeks had been spent on the great main roads, hurrying home from one scene of pleasure with barely time to dress for another! Olive had thoroughly enjoyed the excitement of this perpetual change, but she painfully felt the need of some one who loved her. In Harley Street her uncle's eyes always brightened when he saw her; and she never entered the study without a kind word from her aunt, though it might be little more than 'Oh, it is you, darling; do sit down, but don't speak until I give you leave.' Now, though Olive did not go so far as to make the actual comparison, Lady Brooke treated her much as a milliner treats a lay figure. She was careful to see that her daughter was well dressed and well placed, and then, so long as they happened to be alone together, she took very little further notice of her. When visitors came, Lady Brooke always placed her in the best possible light; but Olive pined for a word or two of kindness when no one was there. The words 'dear' and 'darling' fell trippingly enough from Lady Brooke's tongue, but they had no inner warmth -they were only used conventionally. Moreover, Olive felt as if Lady Brooke either placed a barrier between herself and her father and brothers and sisters, or did not care to remove one which by some accident already existed. She continually spoke of Sir Chesterfield, but never as if Olive would have much to do with him; nor did she ever seem to look forward to the time when Olive and her brothers and sisters would all live together, or do anything to draw them nearer to each other now. Lady Brooke wrote long letters to India to her husband, and to Lausanne to the girls, but she never showed Olive their answers, or asked her to write to them, or gave her a message from them, or tried in any way to make her feel as if she were anything to them. Olive often thought of these things with surprise and pain. She dropped her book now to think of them once more. Lady Brooke was writing, and if Olive

could have seen her letter she might have read:-'Do not be unhappy about Olive. I always told you that it was foolish to be so, and now that she is with me I say so still more strongly. She has every chance of doing extremely well. She has every possible advantage. Thanks to our own friends and to your sister Esther's kind introductions, we have had ample opportunity of enjoying society. Olive Olive is remarkably beautiful; a little dreamy and not a little romantic, but I think that is easily to be accounted for by the odd way in which she has been brought up. Sir John Ellerton is very much in love with her. She is not aware of it yet, and I do not mean to enlighten her; indeed, I did not attach much importance to the matter myself until three weeks ago, when he brought his mother to call on us. She is a dear old lady, as good and kind as can be, but much too full of the importance of her family and of her son to come here and sanction any love-affair with poor dear Olive, if she had not seen that he was so thoroughly in earnest that it would be impossible to make him take the disadvantages of such an alliance into account. He will be a very good husband for her, for he has at least 20,000l. a year. They will probably be married some time in the autumn or winter. I shall leave Amabel with them in England, for I am sure India will never suit her, and return to you with the younger girls; and then I think we may all be very happy together if you will only take brighter views of everything. Anyhow, if Olive gets such an extremely desirable husband as Sir John Ellerton is sure to be, I do not see that you need worry yourself any longer on her account; indeed, it will be wrong to me and to your other children if you do.' So far had Lady Brooke written when a loud postman's knock announced the arrival of more letters. She grumbled. Olive rejoiced: she said that she liked letters, and often wished that the postman would come twice as often. You would not get more letters if he did,' replied Lady Brooke, but such considerations were too deep for Olive; besides, she was soon absorbed in a letter from her Aunt Selina. Lady Brooke had a packet of letters. Some were invitations, and these she at once. answered, and thus some time was spent. There, that is from your Aunt Ullathorne,' said she at length; and as she spoke, she tossed aside a letter with an enormous garden-seat-like monogram as vulgar as modern taste could devise. I have read it, though I knew there would be something in it to vex me.'

It was rather a comical letter. Since Mrs. Ullathorne's departure she had had leisure to think, and had come to the conclusion that it was very foolish to shrink from saying unpleasant things to servants when benefit to yourself might accrue from doing so.' Her letter was full of orders to her sister Honora to