of those pretty wild flowers, which this young maid, this virtuous
Rosamund, has ever gathered in a fine May morning, to make a posy to
place in the bosom of her old blind friend.

Rosamund had a very just notion of drawing, and would often employ
her talent in making sketches of the surrounding scenery.

On a landscape, a larger piece than she had ever yet attempted, she
had now been working for three or four months. She had taken great
pains with it, given much time to it, and it was nearly finished. For
_whose_ particular inspection it was designed, I will not venture to
conjecture. We know it could not have been for her grandmother's.

One day she went out on a short errand, and left her landscape on the
table. When she returned, she found it _gone_.

Rosamund from the first suspected some mischief, but held her tongue.
At length she made the fatal discovery. Margaret, in her absence, had
laid violent hands on it; not knowing what it was, but taking it for
some waste-paper, had torn it in half, and with one half of this
elaborate composition had twisted herself up--a thread-paper!

Rosamund spread out her hands at sight of the disaster, gave her
grandmother a roguish smile, but said not a word. She knew the poor
soul would only fret, if she told her of it,--and when once Margaret
was set a fretting for other people's misfortunes, the fit held her
pretty long.

So Rosamund that very afternoon began another piece of the same size
and subject; and Margaret, to her dying day, never dreamed of the