background with their dark foliage. The swans displayed their
brilliant plumage on the lake, the boughs of the trees were alive with
parroquets and other winged creatures of the tropics. Add to the
charms of this scene, Mrs. Becker returning from the prairie with a
jar of warm, frothy milk--Mrs. Wolston and Mary busied in a
multiplicity of household occupations, to which their white hands and
ringing voices gave elegance and grace--Sophia tying a rose to the
neck of a blue antelope which she had adopted as a companion--Frank
distributing food to the ostriches and large animals, and admit, if
there is a paradise on earth, it was this spot.

Compare this scene with that presented by any of our large cities at
the same hour in the morning. In London or Paris, our dominion rarely
extends over two or three dreary-looking rooms--a geranium, perhaps,
at one of the windows to represent the fields and green lanes of the
country; above, a forest of smoking chimneys vary the monotony of the
zig-zag roofs; below, a thousand confused noises of waggons, cabs, and
the hoarse voices of the street criers; probably the lamps are just
being extinguished, and the dust heaps carted away, filling our rooms,
and perhaps our eyes, with ashes; the chalk-milk, the air, and the
odors are scarcely required to fill up the picture.

Breakfast was spread a few paces from Mr. Wolston's bed, whom the two
young girls were tending with anxious solicitude, and whose sickness
was almost enviable, so many were the cares lavished upon him.

"You are wrong, Mrs. Becker," said Mrs. Wolston, "to make yourself
uneasy, the sea has become as smooth as a mirror since their
departure."