July 7.-Such a delightful evening walk with Metelill and Isa as Emily and I had last night, going to evensong in our despised church! The others said they could stand no more walking and heat, and yet we met Martyn and Mary out upon the rocks when we were coming home, after being, I must confess, nearly fried to death by the gas and bad air. They laughed at us and our exertions, all in the way of good humour, but it was not wholesome from parents. Mary tried to make me confess that we were coming home in a self-complacent fakir state of triumph in our headaches, much inferior to her humble revelling in cool sea, sky, and moonlight. It was like the difference between the Benedicite and the Te Deum, I could not help thinking; while Emily said a few words to Martyn as to how mamma would be disappointed at his absenting himself from Church, and was answered, "Ah! Emily, you are still the good home child of the primitive era," which she did not understand; but I faced about and asked if it were not what we all should be. He answered rather sadly, "If we could'; and his wife shrugged her shoulders. Alas! I fear the nineteenth century tone has penetrated them, and do not wonder that this poor Isabel does not seem happy in her home.
9.-What a delightful sight is a large family of young things together! The party is complete, for the Druces arrived yesterday evening in full force, torn from their bucolic life, as Martyn tells them. My poor dear old Margaret! She does indeed look worn and aged, dragged by cares like a colonist's wife, and her husband is quite bald, and as spare as a hermit. It is hard to believe him younger than Martyn; but then his whole soul is set on Bourne Parva, and hers on him, on the children, on the work, and on making both ends meet; and they toil five times more severely in one month than the professor and his lady in a year, besides having just twice as many children, all of whom are here except the schoolboys. Margaret declares that the entire rest, and the talking to something not entirely rural, will wind her husband up for the year; and it is good to see her sitting in a basket-chair by my mother, knitting indeed, but they both do that like breathing, while they purr away to one another in a state of perfect repose and felicity. Meantime her husband talks Oxford with Martyn and Mary. Their daughter Jane seems to be a most valuable helper to both, but she too has a worn, anxious countenance, and I fear she may be getting less rest than her parents, as they have brought only one young nursemaid with them, and seem to depend on her and Meg for keeping the middle-sized children in order. She seems to have all the cares of the world on her young brow, and is much exercised about one of the boxes which has gone astray on the railway. What do you think she did this morning? She started off with Avice at eight o'clock for the S. Clements station to see if the telegram was answered, and they went on to the Convalescent Home and saw the Oxford dressmaker. It seems that Avice had taken Uchtred with her on Sunday evening, made out the place, and gone to church at S. Clements close by-a very long walk; but it seems that those foolish girls thought me too fine a lady to like to be seen with her in her round hat on a Sunday. I wish they could understand what it is that I dislike. If I objected to appearances, I am afraid the poor Druces would fare ill. Margaret's girls cannot help being essentially ladies, but they have not much beauty to begin with-and their dress! It was chiefly made by their own sewing machine, with the assistance of the Bourne Parva mantua-maker, superintended by Jane, 'to prevent her from making it foolish'; and the effect, I grieve to say, is ill-fitting dowdiness, which becomes grotesque from their self-complacent belief that it displays the only graceful and sensible fashion in the place. It was laughable to hear them criticising every hat or costume they have seen, quite unaware that they were stared at themselves, till Charley told them people thought they had come fresh out of Lady Bountiful's goody-box, which piece of impertinence they took as a great compliment to their wisdom and excellence. To be sure, the fashions are distressing enough, but Metelill shows that they can be treated gracefully and becomingly, and even Avice makes her serge and hat look fresh and ladylike. Spite of contrast, Avice and Jane seem to be much devoted to each other. Pica and Charley are another pair, and Isa and Metelill-though Metelill is the universal favourite, and there is always competition for her. In early morning I see the brown heads and blue bathing-dresses, a-mermaiding, as they call it, in the cove below, and they come in all glowing, with the floating tresses that make Metelill look so charming, and full of merry adventures at breakfast. We all meet in the great room at the hotel for a substantial meal at half-past one, and again (most of us at least) at eight; but it is a moot point which of these meals we call dinner. Very merry both of them are; Martyn and Horace Druce are like boys together, and the girls scream with laughter, rather too much so sometimes. Charley is very noisy, and so is Meg Druce, when not overpowered by shyness. She will not exchange a sentence with any of the elders, but in the general laugh she chuckles and shrieks like a young Cochin-Chinese chicken learning to crow; and I hear her squealing like a maniac while she is shrimping with the younger ones and Charley. I must except those two young ladies from the unconscious competition, for one has no manners at all, and the other affects those of a man; but as to the rest, they are all as nice as possible, and I can only say, "How happy could I be with either." Isa, poor girl, seems to need our care most, and would be the most obliging and attentive. Metelill would be the prettiest and sweetest ornament of our drawing-room, and would amuse you the most; Pica, with her scholarly tastes, would be the best and most appreciative fellow-traveller; and Jane, if she could or would go, would perhaps benefit the most by being freed from a heavy strain, and having her views enlarged.
10.-A worthy girl is Jane Druce, but I fear the Vicarage is no school of manners. Her mother is sitting with us, and has been discoursing to grandmamma on her Jane's wonderful helpfulness and activity in house and parish, and how everything hinged on her last winter when they had whooping-cough everywhere in and out of doors; indeed she doubts whether the girl has ever quite thrown off the effects of all her exertions then. Suddenly comes a trampling, a bounce and a rush, and in dashes Miss Jane, fiercely demanding whether the children had leave to go to the cove. Poor Margaret meekly responds that she had consented. "And didn't you know," exclaims the damsel, "that all their everyday boots are in that unlucky trunk?" There is a humble murmur that Chattie had promised to be very careful, but it produces a hotter reply. "As if Chattie's promises of that kind could be trusted! And I had told them that they were to keep with baby on the cliff!" Then came a real apology for interfering with Jane's plans, to which we listened aghast, and Margaret was actually getting up to go and look after her amphibious offspring herself, when her daughter cut her off short with, "Nonsense, mamma, you know you are not to do any such thing! I must go, that's all, or they won't have a decent boot or stocking left among them." Off she went with another bang, while her mother began blaming herself for having yielded in haste to the persuasions of the little ones, oblivious of the boots, thus sacrificing Jane's happy morning with Avice. My mother showed herself shocked by the tone in which Margaret had let herself be hectored, and this brought a torrent of almost tearful apologies from the poor dear thing, knowing she did not keep up her authority or make herself respected as would be good for her girl, but if we only knew how devoted Jane was, and how much there was to grind and try her temper, we should not wonder that it gave way sometimes. Indeed it was needful to turn away the subject, as Margaret was the last person we wished to distress.