THE CHILD.


"Well, there!" said Miss Vesta. "The child has a wonderful gift, that
is certain. Just listen to her, Rejoice! You never heard our canary
sing like that!"

Miss Vesta put back the shutters as she spoke, and let a flood of
light into the room where Miss Rejoice lay. The window was open, and
Melody's voice came in like a wave of sound, filling the room with
sweetness and life and joy.

"It's like the foreign birds they tell about!" said Miss Rejoice,
folding her thin hands, and settling herself on the pillow with an air
of perfect content,--"nightingales, and skylarks, and all the birds in
the poetry-books. What is she doing, Vesta?"

Miss Rejoice could see part of the yard from her bed. She could see
the white lilac-bush, now a mass of snowy plumes, waving in the June
breeze; she could see the road, and knew when any of the neighbors
went to town or to meeting; but the corner from which the wonderful
voice came thrilling and soaring was hidden from her.

Miss Vesta peered out between the muslin curtains. "She's sitting on
the steps," she said, "feeding the hens. It is wonderful, the way the
creatures know her! That old top-knot hen, that never has a good word
for anybody, is sitting in her lap almost. She says she understands
their talk, and I really believe she does. 'Tis certain none of them
cluck, not a sound, while she's singing. 'Tis a manner of marvel, to