Onemorning，ashewasreturningfromahouseattheWestEndwherehehadboughtsomeclothesfromoneoftheservants，hewasstruckbyasmallcrowdwhichhadgatheredroundaspacethathadbeenrailedoffonthegrassnearoneofthepathsintheGreenPark。
ItwasalovelysoftspringmorningattheendofMarch，andunusuallybalmyforthetimeofyear；evenErnest’smelancholywasrelievedforawhilebythelookofspringthatpervadedearthandsky；butitsoonreturned，andsmilingsadlyhesaidtohimself：
“Itmaybringhopetoothers，butformetherecanbenohopehenceforth。”
Asthesewordswereinhismindhejoinedthesmallcrowdwhoweregatheredroundtherailings，andsawthattheywerelookingatthreesheepwithverysmalllambsonlyadayortwoold，whichhadbeenpennedoffforshelterandprotectionfromtheothersthatrangedthepark。
Theywereverypretty，andLondonerssoseldomgetachanceofseeinglambsthatitwasnowondereveryonestoppedtolookatthem。Ernestobservedthatnooneseemedfonderofthemthanagreatlubberlybutcherboy，wholeanedupagainsttherailingswithatrayofmeatuponhisshoulder。Hewaslookingatthisboyandsmilingatthegrotesquenessofhisadmiration，whenhebecameawarethathewasbeingwatchedintentlybyamanincoachman’slivery，whohadalsostoppedtoadmirethelambs，andwasleaningagainsttheoppositesideoftheenclosure。ErnestknewhiminamomentasJohn，hisfather’soldcoachmanatBattersby，andwentuptohimatonce。