As the gong sounded for lunch, and not till then, he would lay down his pen. Punctuality at meals, as in all things, was his habit; and he was soon seated at the head of his table, conversing on all topics of the day with those present. After a light meal he would return to his library, and be soon as deeply absorbed in his work as before.

Later in the day Mr. Gladstone would take his much-needed exercise. With his axe, and usually accompanied by one or more members of his family, he would saunter forth wool-cutting. He never cut down a tree wantonly for the mere sake of exercise. Sometimes the fate of a tree at Hawarden hung in the balance for years. The opinion of the family was consulted; visitors were asked to contribute advice. Mr. Ruskin once sealed the fate of an oak; Sir John Millais decided on the removal of an elm.

Mr. Gladstone wielded the axe with the skill of an experienced woodman. Many are the stories told of his wood-cutting.

"We are very proud of our trees," he said one day to a party of tourists: "and we are therefore getting anxious, as this beech has already shown symptoms of decay. We set great store by our trees."

Why then do you cut 'em down as you do?" roared one of the lads.

"We cut down that we may improve. We remove rottenness that we may restore health by letting in air and light. As a good Liberal, you ought to understand that."

His generosity in throwing Hawarden Park open to visitors was greatly appreciated in the neighbourhood; but the general public took undue advantage of his kindness. They picked his flowers, they carved their names on his walls, they took chips front his trees, and even cut his name out of his Bible in Hawarden Church.

The end of Mr. Gladstone's day at Hawarden was in keeping with the rest. On quiet evenings, after dinner, when there were no visitors at the castle, he would sit and chat with various members of his family. Shortly after ten his day was over, and, with the regularity of a child, he would go off to bed at his appointed hour.

Such was the simplicity of Mr. Gladstone's life. True indeed of his own life are the words he applied to the lives of others: "In the sphere of common experience, we see some human beings live and die, and furnish by their life no special lessons visible to man, hut only that general teaching, in elementary and simple forms, which is deducible from every particle of human histories. Others there have been who, from the time when their young lives first, as it were, peeped over the horizon, seemed at once to

whose lengthening years have been but one growing splendour and who at last—