There is in England a large and interesting county, mostly green on maps. We call it Lincolnshire.

There is a part of that same county where you see the gleaming silver of the Wash—so fatal to King John of unpleasing memory—and the green marshlands are drained by wide dykes, and stakes stand bunched at intervals along the low-lying shore to break the fury of the sea, at the great high tides of spring and autumn; and the river that meanders through the "Deeps," as these marsh flats are called, has no banks when the tide is full, but seems as though its waters brimmed, and only kept themselves from slopping over by an amazing steadiness of hand in which you are not wise to place implicit trust.

That is "Little Holland."

Where the ground begins to rise a shade, so that the great mass of dim red buildings seems to tiptoe in the rolling sea of green, stands the famous Redlands College; where everyone, from Miss Conyngham the Head—are you brave enough to ask her?—down to Tiddles the school baby, will have something to tell about the thrilling story which acted itself round about Little Holland during Joey Graham's first term in the Lower School. And, let me tell you, they are proud of that story at Redlands. Here it is! Gabrielle or Noreen would like to tell it, I know; but you'd better let me.

DOROTHEA MOORE.