bosom were just beginning to loosen themselves, and send out upon
the air sweet intimations of an abounding fragrance. He had escaped
from his nurse, and was running off in the clear sunshine, the slant
rays of which threw a long shadow before him.

"Arty, darling!" His mother's voice flew along and past his ear,
kissing it in gentle remonstrance as it went by. But baby was in
eager pursuit of something, and the call, if heard, was unheeded.
His eyes were opening world-ward, and every new
phenomenon--commonplace and unheeded by us--that addressed itself to
his senses, became a wonder and a delight. Some new object was
drawing him away from the loving heart and protecting arm.

"Run after him, Mr. Mayflower!" said my wife, with a touch of
anxiety in her voice. "He might fall and hurt himself."

I did not require a second intimation as to my duty in the case.
Only a moment or two elapsed before I was on the pavement, and
making rapid approaches towards my truant boy.

"What is it, darling? What is Arty running after?" I said, as I laid
my hand on his arm, and checked his eager speed. He struggled a
moment, and then stood still, stooping forward for something on the
ground.

"O, papa see!" There was a disappointed and puzzled look in his face
as he lifted his eyes to mine. He failed to secure the object of his
pursuit.

"What is it, sweet?" My eyes followed his as they turned upon the