Dear pleasant-spoken rooks, talking so loudly and irreverently about their own secular themes--out-cawing the church-bells, as we pace by, devout and smart, to our prayers.

Last time I walked up this path, it was hidden with red cloth, and flowers were tumbling under my feet.

Ah! red cloth comes but once in a lifetime.
It is only the queen who lives in an atmosphere of red cloth and cut flowers.
We are in church now.

The service is in progress.

Can it be only _five_ Sundays ago that I was standing here as I am now, watching all the little well-known incidents?
Father standing up in frock-coat and spectacles, keeping a sharp lookout over the top of his prayer-book, to see _how_ late the servants are.