them. Jerome had scarcely felt thoroughly warm before, since last
summer. That same little, tight, and threadbare jacket had been his
thickest garment all winter. The wood had been stinted on the hearth,
the coverings on his bed; but now the full privilege of the spring
sun was his, and the blood in this little meagre human plant, chilled
and torpid with the winter's frosts, stirred and flowed like that in
any other. Who could say that the bliss of renewed vitality which the
boy felt, as he rested there in his snug rock, was not identical with
that of the springing grass and the flowering peach-trees? Who could
say that he was more to all intents and purposes, for that minute,
than the rock-honeysuckle opening its red cups on the ledge over his
head? He was conscious of no more memory or forethought.

Presently he shut his eyes, and the sunlight came in a soft rosy glow
through his closed lids. Then it was that a little girl came across
the fields, clambering cautiously over the stone walls, lest she
should tear her gown, stepping softly over the green grass in her
little morocco shoes, and finally stood still in front of the boy
sitting with his eyes closed in the hollow of the rock. Twice she
opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again. At last she gained
courage.

"Be you sick, boy?" she inquired, in a sweet, timid voice.

Jerome opened his eyes with a start, and stared at the little quaint
figure standing before him. Lucina wore a short blue woollen gown;
below it her starched white pantalets hung to the tops of her morocco
shoes. She wore also a white tier, and over that a little coat, and
over that a little green cashmere shawl sprinkled with palm leaves,
which her mother had crossed over her bosom and tied at her back for