himself about the matter," rejoined Beatrice quietly. She almost added, "It is for your sake, much more than his, that I have urged you to show him a little kindness," but she restrained the remark, knowing that it would destroy even the little hope she entertained of effecting any change in Miss Vivian's inveterate and unfounded dislike of Leonard.

Sometimes Beatrice positively shuddered, as words and deeds revealed more plainly the cold hard selfishness of Miss Vivian's character. Would anything ever touch her? could anything ever thaw the thick crust of ice within which her heart seemed to be frozen up? The only creatures in the world towards whom she showed the slightest affection were herself and the faithful Bentley; and rarely indeed did the expression of that affection soften to anything that in the remotest degree approached to tenderness.

Naturally a somewhat close and grasping character, Miss Vivian had degenerated into her present condition of mind and body during years of solitude, of lonely musing upon her own rights and wrongs, of utter coldness towards the wants and claims of her fellow-creatures, and of constant yielding to her avaricious tendencies, which grew stronger and stronger by indulgence. It was only during the last two years that she had cared so much for Beatrice-the liking being evidenced by her frequent requests for visits, and still more by her submitting to what at least approached contradiction from her. From no one else in the world, except Bentley, would she allow this for a moment.

Her pertinacious dislike of Leonard would seem to have originated in some measure from a contradiction she received from him when a boy. On one solitary occasion, she had admitted him into her drawing-room for a visit, and his free, frank bearing, easy boyish remarks, and blunt answers, had so offended her that she had ordered him out of the house. Never since then had there been an interview between them. Captain Vivian sometimes caused much amusement by relating the particulars of that memorable visit. The climax arose from a flat contradiction respecting the gorgeous bird that was depicted in flaming colours-sadly faded even then-upon the worked ottoman. Miss Vivian had made some remark, intended to be gracious, upon the "bird of paradise." "Bird of paradise!" retorted the fourteen-years-old schoolboy, bursting into a fit of laughter. "Why, it's nothing

but a green parrot, with a yellow crest, and blue wings, and scarlet tail. Bird of paradise indeed! I've seen a stuffed one, and I know what they are like." Whereupon Miss Vivian had desired him, if he could not remember to behave like a gentleman, to leave the house, and not come again until she requested him to do so. The ottoman had been worked by Miss Vivian's grandmother, and was in her eyes a perfect model.

To return to the conversation between Miss Vivian and Beatrice. It was interrupted by Mr. Wentworth rising to leave. At this juncture, Bentley reappeared in the doorway with the suggestion,

66

'Please, ma'am, it's such a lovely day that I think you would like to go out."

"Just the very thing," said Mr. Wentworth, approvingly. "I am afraid I cannot spare any more time, or I would go with you; but Beatrice will stay and accompany you."

"John Sanders hasn't nothing particular to do to-day, ma'am, and he's come to know whether you wouldn't go out in the chair, and I told him it was likely you would," said Bentley, with a rather determined air. "So he's downstairs, and he'll get out the chair, and he'll only charge you ninepence for the hour, he says."

66

"Threepence less than his usual charge," murmured Miss Vivian meditatively. He would not do it for that unless he were short of work. I wonder if he would take sixpence."

"I don't think you would like to ask him to do that, Miss Vivian," pleasantly interposed Beatrice. "I daresay the poor man is in real need of the money, and you could not wish to give him less than his due. But now I am going to fetch your bonnet and cloak, while they are getting out the chair. I know where they are kept."

Miss Vivian had not yet made up her mind whether to go or stay, but both Beatrice and Bentley left the room without waiting for objections, the former returning almost immediately with the necessary articles. A grim smile came to Miss Vivian's face as Beatrice, with her quiet air of decision, folded the shawl and wrapped it round her shoulders, then brought the faded bonnet to her side.

"You seem determined not to allow me a voice in the matter, Beatrice. I don't know that I shall go after all. It is ruinous work."

"But the chair is coming to the door,"

smilingly returned Beatrice. "And now you

are nearly dressed, and I have had the trouble of fetching your things, you must not disappoint me. Here comes Bentley to say that the chair is waiting."

"Yes, ma'am, it's all ready, and John Sanders is a-wondering how he'll ever pull it through the brambles; but I tell him it's got to be done, and I suppose it aint worse than last time. He says the garden aint like being in a civilized country."

"Very impertinent of John Sanders," said Miss Vivian, bridling. "As if it concerned him in the least! What has he to do with it ?"

"Nothing, ma'am, except to draw you through it," said Bentley, laughing, and giving Beatrice a confidential glance, meant to express a great deal. "I tell him that can't be very hard work, for you aint so desperate stout and heavy. Now, ma'am, you're ready, and you'll take my arm to the door."

Miss Vivian submitted, and was soon seated in the rather rickety wheel-chair, and being drawn between the masses of shrubs, brambles, and nettles that surrounded the house. No wonder John Sanders had expressed some doubts as to its being safely accomplished. Very narrow indeed was the path, and the branches that swept completely across it greatly impeded the course of the chair. More than one Beatrice broke off and threw away, regardless of the thorns that pricked her

fingers, to prevent it from rebounding in Miss Vivian's face.

At last they gained the road, went a short distance in the opposite direction to Rookdale, and then turned down a narrow lane which formed the boundary of one side and the back of The Rookery garden. Beatrice was mentally contrasting that fair, well-arranged parterre with Miss Vivian's "jungle," as Constance sometimes called it, when she became conscious of distant shouts and cries in the road they had left. Miss Vivian looked round nervously. What is the matter, Beatrice ?"

66

"I cannot see anything here. John, will you go to the end of the lane, and see what it is? Perhaps some one is needing help."

They were in more need of help themselves. John Sanders set off at a running pace with alacrity, and gained the beginning of the lane; then Beatrice saw him spring up the mossy bank at the side, with a loud shout of warning. At the same instant, a cart and horse appeared round the corner, coming down the lane at a fearful rate. Like a flash of lightning, the thought glanced through Beatrice's mind that she had no time to assist Miss Vivian's feeble steps to a place of safety. She might escape herself, for there was a little gate into Mr. Mansfield's garden, hardly twelve yards distant. Yet how could she leave Miss Vivianpoor helpless old lady-without an attempt to save her ?

EIGHO! how pleasant it is to be out in the woods all day," sighed little Ida, as she threw herself upon a grassy bank by the brook-side. "I don't see the use of being mewed up in the house these warm bright days, when the woods are so shady and cool. Heigho!"

Ida was a little girl who dearly loved the flowers and glad sunshine. She was only happy when roaming about at will, chasing the gaily-painted butterflies, or making, with her own merry voice, an echo to the song of the uncaged birds.

Very pleasant it would have been to pass whole days in this manner, but Ida had duties to perform-as who has not? What is there in the whole earth so insignificant as to say with truth, "I am of no use "? Every dewdrop has its peculiar mission to fulfil; and each tiny snow-flake falls to the ground to assist in accomplishing some great purpose. But Ida never thought of all this. Her mother, she knew, talked to her of duties, and often kept her indoors, performing unwelcome tasks which seemed to the little girl of trifling importance, when she would fain have been out in the fresh green fields. She knew not that her first duty was obedience, and therefore was frequently ill-tempered and

perverse.

It was a lovely summer afternoon, and Ida, having finished her tasks, was permitted to go out into the fields. The day had been intensely warm, but now a soft gentle breeze sprang up, and the flowers began to lift their drooping heads that had shrunk from the bright gaze of the sun. Little Ida ran about delighted with the sense of freedom from restraint; but at length, becoming weary, she threw herself upon the grass, and sighed, "Heigho!"

'Oh, dear," murmured the little girl, after a long revery, "how I wish there was no such thing as work in the world-at any rate, for a little girl like me! I don't see that I am of any use, and yet mamma will keep me in all day. I wish I could live out of doors always. Pretty daisies," she continued, addressing a tuft of flowers that grew at her feet, "do you know I envy you? For you have no duties to perform, and nothing in the world to do but to live in the sunshine and look charming. Yes; I wish I could be like you."

It was certainly very strange, but just as Ida spoke these words, the little daisies began nodding to her in the drollest manner imaginable, and then she saw that the flowers were lovely little faces; the stems and leaves assumed human forms, and soon they were a little troop of fairies, who joined hands and danced about her, singing, in soft musical tones

"Sisters bright, make room, make room,

A new flower comes to bud and bloom;
To weep with the rain-drops, to smile with the sun,
And wither and fade when her task is done."

As they circled round, repeating these words, Ida felt herself descending into the ground, the song, died away upon her ear, and she remained in utter darkness. The little girl did not feel at all frightened, but wondered very much what would happen next. She waited a while in expectation, and then cried out, "I am tired of staying here in the dark. I want to see the light.”

66

'Be quiet," said a tiny voice close at her side, "and wait until the snow melts a little, and the earth is thawed. You could not get out now if you were to try."

Ida turned round in astonishment at this speech, but she could see nothing in the dark, so she asked,

"Who are you, and how came you here? I am a little girl, and my name is Ida."

"What a droll conceit!" replied the voice, with a merry little laugh. "You are nothing more nor less than a flower-seed, like myself. By-and-by we will come up out of the ground, and bloom in the sunshine."

"But how long will it be before we leave this gloomy place ?" asked the little girl, who now began to realize that she had gained her wish, and was actually to be a flower. "I can't say that I like being a seed at all.”

"Why, you cannot be a flower without first being a seed," returned the other. "There are plenty of us here, waiting for the Spring to set us free; don't be impatient, she will come in good time."

Ida remained quiet for some time, and then again asked, "How can you lie so contentedly in this dark place ?"

"It is our duty," answered the tiny voice, shortly; for the little girl's talking annoyed

him.

M

that reached her, borne on the blast, "and for the rest we trust."

At last the rain ceased, the clouds began to separate, and the sun again smiled down upon the earth. The birds left their nests, and sang joyously, and all things revived. Little Ida, though bruised and shorn of some green leaves, yet felt very much refreshed. But there remained one raindrop in her heart; the wind had blown a long branch, thick with clustering leaves, just before her, and the setting sun could not reach her behind the leafy screen. So, while the other flowers were gaily lifting their heads, and basking in his beam, poor Ida trembled beneath the weight of the raindrop.

"How unfortunate I am!" she sighed repiningly. "The sun has dried all the rain from the other flowers; while I must sink beneath this weight through all the long night."

Then she folded her leaves and slept; but when the morning sun gleamed down once more, the raindrop shone like a diamond upon her breast.

When the scorching noonday beam again. shone down, the flowers paled and withered as before; but the drop which rested in Ida's breast strengthened and refreshed her, so that she did not shrink from the sun's ray, but lifted her head firmly. The moisture dried up from her heart, but little Ida had learned a new truth.

"Ah! I understand now," she exclaimed, "that what seems to be very disagreeable at first, is all for our good after all. Had it not been for that drop of rain, I might have withered in the sun. After this, so long as I live, I will remember to do my duty, and trust."

All the flowers applauded loudly at this.

And as the humming, rustling noise increased, a strange thrill passed through little Ida: her bright leaves fell to the ground, and lo and behold, she was lying upon the grass at the brookside, with the tuft of daisies blooming at her side!

Her first impulse was to bend over the water, and there she beheld the reflection of her own astonished face. There could be no doubt she had been a flower, but was now little Ida again.

"You have taught me a fine lesson," she cried, turning to the daisies, "and one that I shall not soon forget. I am quite contented to remain just the little girl that I am, and shall never wish to be a flower again. Don't you approve my decision ?"

But the little daisies looked perfectly unconscious, and stared steadily up at the sky, never vouchsafing so much as a nod in reply.

“Oh, it is all very well for you to make believe you don't understand me," persisted little Ida; "but I shall not forget your advice. We do our duty, and trust," she whispered, with a triumphant air. "Do you remember the words ?"

But the perverse little daisies did not seem to hear, and never even moved a leaf.

'Well, well," laughed Ida, as she ran home; "if you don't remember them, I do, and mean to live after them besides."

And so she did; and though she loved the woods and flowers as well as ever, she never murmured at her tasks; and so grew to be a good and happy girl. But though she often stopped to talk to the daisies, not one of them ever deigned a reply; they had evidently cut her acquaintance.-Woodleigh House; or, The Happy Holidays. London: T. Nelson and Sons.

HE Capreoline Deer, of which group this species forms a very characteristic type, are distinguished by their predilection for mountainous localities, as the Fallow Deer delights in wooded plains, and the Stag in the most extensive forests. The Roebuck exhibits a degree of boldness and agility in its leaps which fit it for its favourite haunts, and almost claim for it the analogical appellation of the Chamois of

the Ceroine family. It differs remarkably in many respects from the Red and Fallow Deer. It is much smaller in size, and exceedingly light in figure and limb, and its horns are short and simple.

The Roebuck is said to have his chosen companion for life, being strictly monogamous, and evincing the most lively regard and affection for his mate. The female, according to the statement of many authorities, brings two