MR. GLADSTONE
contrast could have been greater than that between the cabaret of Aristide Bruant among the lights of the Champs Élysées and the lonely ranch house, on the then barren shores of Lake Guadalupe, but the rejoicing was the same, although enlivened by whisky-floats instead of vin rouge.
IV.—IN THE TEMPLE OF PEACE
I AM once more at Hawarden. In the Temple of Peace there is absolute silence. An older Gladstone is sitting at the desk by the tall window that overlooks the green slope that rises to the hill on which the ruins of the ancient castle stand: a little shrunken maybe—not quite so vigorous—but more beautiful than ever. He writes with his head bent down close to the paper on the table, and every now and then refers to a blue-bound book lying at hand.
The canvas on my easel is small, the same as the first that was painted in the library years before. He raises his head sometimes and gazes thoughtfully out upon the trees that are changing the colour of their leaves to yellow, pink, and chestnut. The profile against the pane is so finely cut that I trace its outline in the lower corner of the canvas, and go on with the portrait when he bends his head to write. Mr. Gladstone is editing the works of Bishop Butler. Presently, wishing to make a comprehensive search through the pages of the blue volume, he takes it up in one hand, and using the thumb as a ratchet, allows the leaves to fall one by one, seeking on each page the thought or phrase to suit his purpose. I pause in my work and wait until he resumes his position writing, but the minutes go slowly by, and still the leaves fall one by
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