inclined the same way myself; so, it was but natural that we should disagree: two suns, you know, cannot shine in the same hemisphere.

Before I could answer him, Miss Pimpernell hastily interposed. She hated to hear us arguing and bickering as was generally our way when we met. “Please bring the measuring tape, Frank,” she said, “you will find it on that bench in the corner; and come and see how long my wreath is. It should be just nineteen feet, but I’m afraid I am a yard short.”

By the time I had done as my old friend requested, the conversation which I had interrupted by my advent resumed its course. They were talking about the future world, and ventilating sundry curious thoughts on the subject.

“And what do you think heaven will be like?” asked Seraphine Dasher, appealing to me. “Everybody’s opinion has been given but yours and Miss Pimpernell’s, and Mr Mawley’s; and I’m coming to them presently.”

“I’m sure I can’t say,” I answered, “perhaps a combination of choral music, running water, I mean the sound of brooks gliding and fountains splashing, with almond toffee at discretion: that’s my idea of earthly felicity at least.”

“Oh, fie!” said my interlocutor; while I could hear Miss Spight murmur “What deplorable levity,” as she glowered at me severely and looked sympathisingly at Mr Mawley.

“Well,” said I, “I was only joking then; for, really, I’ve never seriously thought about the matter. As far as I can believe, however, I do not imagine heaven is going to be a place where we’ll be singing hymns all day. I think we shall be happy there, each in our several ways, as we are on earth, and be in the company of those we love: heaven would be miserable without that, I think.”

“And what do you say, Miss Pimpernell?” next asked Seraphine.

“I do not say anything at all, my dear: the subject is beyond me. I leave it to One who is wiser than us all to tell me in his own good time.”

“And you, Mr Mawley?” continued our fair questioner.

“We should not seek to understand the mysteries of the oracles of God,” said the curate pompously.

“My dear, I can tell you,” said the vicar, who had slipped in quietly, unknown to us all, “‘Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath 

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