sinless mirthfulness of the earliest home; with consolation in after
sorrows, support through after trials, and never parting company with
its twin sister, Hope.

I entered the vicar's room this evening just as the group had
collected round him. By the side of his wife sat a lady in whom I
feel a keen interest. Her face wears that kind of calm which speaks
of the lassitude bequeathed by sorrow. She is the aunt of my beloved
one. Lily had nestled herself on a low ottoman, at the good pastor's
feet, with one of his little girls, round whose shoulder she had wound
her arm. She is much more fond of the companionship of children than
that of girls of her own age. The vicar's wife, a very clever woman,
once, in my hearing, took her to task for this preference, asking her
why she persisted in grouping herself with mere infants who could
teach her nothing? Ah! could you have seen the innocent, angel-like
expression of her face when she answered simply, "I suppose because
with them I feel safer, I mean nearer to God."

Mr. Emlyn--that is the name of the vicar--deduced his homily this
evening from a pretty fairy tale which Lily had been telling to his
children the day before, and which he drew her on to repeat.

Take, in brief, the substance of the story:--

"Once on a time, a king and queen made themselves very unhappy because
they had no heir to their throne; and they prayed for one; and lo, on
some bright summer morning, the queen, waking from sleep, saw a cradle
beside her bed, and in the cradle a beautiful sleeping babe. Great
day throughout the kingdom! But as the infant grew up, it became very
wayward and fretful: it lost its beauty; it would not learn its