And thus Hermione reached her home, her countenance lighted up by the
pleasure of success, and the sweet and healthy musings of her solitary
walk.

She entered the library of a beautiful country house by the low window
that opened on to the lawn, and found her mother reading.

"I cannot tell you how lovely the day is, Mamma, every thing is so
fresh, and the shadows and lights are so good! I have immortalized our
poor old friend the oak, before they cut him down," added she,
smiling, as she placed the drawing in her mother's hands. "I wish the
forest belonged to some one who had not this cruel taste for turning
knotted oak trees into fancy work-tables. It is as bad as what Charles
Lamb said of the firs, 'which look so romantic alive, and die into
desks.'--Die into desks!" repeated Hermione musingly, as she seated
herself on the sofa, and took up a book that was before her on the
table; mechanically removing her bonnet from her head, and laying it
down by her side as she spoke.

And here for some time there was a silence, during which Hermione's
mother ceased reading, and, lifting up her eyes, looked at her
daughter with mingled love, admiration, and interest. "I wish I had
her picture so," dreamt the poor lady, as she gazed; "so earnest, and
understanding, and yet so simple, and kind!--There is but one
difficulty for her in life," was the next thought; "with such keen
enjoyment of this world, such appreciation of the beauties, and
wonders, and delights of God's creations on earth--to keep the eye of
faith firmly fixed on the 'better and more enduring inheritance,' to
which both she and I, but I trust she, far behind, are hastening. Yet,
by God's blessing, and with Christian training, and the habit of