CHAPTER XI.
As dreams are made of, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep."
We are in August now, and there is no coolness anywhere, not in the house, nor in the garden, nor in the sea; twice to-day have I dipped in its salt waters, and each time I have come out of it ten degrees hotter than when I stepped in. Through the dining-room windows yonder we can hear the manly bass of the governor, and the shrill little pipe of the Mummy, following each other in friendly monotony, and out here, under the big linden tree, are sitting Jack, young Mr. Tempest, and I.
The weather has surely softened papa's brain, for, not content with shaking hands with Mr. Tempest, he invited both him and his son to dinner, and has just peaceably partaken of the same with them; Mother, Charles Lovelace, and Alice being also of the company. George and I are old friends now, and he gets on very well with Jack, so he has forsaken claret for our company; and very sociable and merry we are as we sit and fan ourselves with cabbage leaves, for oh! though the sun is sinking, he has heated the earth so thoroughly that it is red-hot through and through; it is impossible to think of even the hours of the night being cool.
Yonder, in the winding ways of the formal garden, Alice and Charles are walking with their heads touching; she is holding up her white silk train with one hand, and her pretty little feet are peeping in and out, while the white roses in her breast and hair are no fairer than her round arms and neck.
"I wish we were at Silverbridge!" I say, swaying my cabbage leaf gently; it goes to my heart to be sitting here, gooseberryless, currantless, raspberryless, while all the little Dorleys are, I am certain, taking their nasty little fills! "Mother wanted to have the
