had created in her mind a standard of the true and beautiful in character, which nothing she saw around her, after of course her grandfather, and one other exception, seemed at all to meet; and partly from her own innate fineness of nature, and partly from this pure ideal always present with her, she had shrunk almost instinctively from the few varieties of human nature the country-side presented to her, and was in fact a very isolated little being, living in a world of her own, and clinging with all her strong out-goings of affection to her grandfather only; granting to but one other person any considerable share in her regard or esteem. Little Fleda was not in the least misanthropical; she gave her kindly sympathies to all who came in her way on whom they could possibly be bestowed; but these people were nothing to her; her spirit fell off from them, even in their presence; there was no affinity. She was in truth what her grandfather had affirmed of her father, made of different stuff from the rest of the world. There was no tincture of pride in all this; there was no conscious feeling of superiority; she could merely have told you that she did not care to hear these people talk, that she did not love to be with them; though she would have said so to no earthly creature but her grandfather, if even to him. "It must be pleasant," said Fleda, after looking for some minutes thoughtfully into the fire,-"it must be a pleasant thing to have a father and mother." "Yes dear!" said her grandfather, sighing,-"you have lost a great deal! But there is your aunt Lucy-you are not dependent altogether on me. "Oh grandpa!" said the little girl laying one hand again pleadingly on his knee;-"I didn't mean-I mean-I was speaking in general—I wasn't thinking of myself in particular." “I know, dear!" said he, as before taking the little hand in his own and moving it softly up and down on his knee. But the action was sad, and there was the same look of sorrowful stern anxiety. Fleda got up and put her arm over his shoulder, speaking from a heart filled too full. 'I don't want aunt Lucy-I don't care about aunt Lucy; I don't want anything but you, grandpa. I wish you wouldn't talk so. "Ah well, dear," said he, without looking at her,-he couldn't bear to look at her," it's well it is so. I sha'n't last a great while-it isn't likely—and I am glad to know there is some one you can fall back upon when I am gone. Fleda's next words were scarce audible, but they contained a reproach to him for speaking so. "We may as well look at it, dear," said he gravely; "it must come to that--sooner or later-but you mustn't distress yourself about it beforehand. Don't cry-don't, dear!" said he, tenderly kissing her. "I didn't mean to trouble you so. There-there-look up, dear-let's take the good we have and be thankful for it. God will arrange the rest, in his own good way. Fleda!—I wouldn't have said a word if I had thought it would have worried you so." He would not indeed. But he had spoken as men so often speak, out of the depths of their own passion or bitterness, forgetting that they are wringing the cords of a delicate harp, and not knowing what mischief they have done till they find the instrument all out of tune,-more often not knowing it ever. It is pity,-for how frequently a discord is left that jars all life long; and how much more frequently still the harp, though retaining its sweetness and truth of tone to the end, is gradually unstrung. Poor Fleda could hardly hold up her head for a long time, and recalling bitterly her unlucky innocent remark which had led to all this trouble she almost made up her mind with a certain heroine of Miss Edgeworth's, that "it is best never to mention things." Mr. Ringgan, now thoroughly alive to the wounds he had been inflicting, held his little pet in his arms, pillowed her head on his breast, and by every tender and soothing action and word endeavoured to undo what he had done. And after a while the agony was over, the wet eyelashes were lifted up, and the meek sorrowful little face lay quietly upon Mr. Ringgan's breast, gazing out into the fire as gravely as if the Panorama of life were there. She little heeded at first her grandfather's cheering talk, she knew it was for a purpose. "Ain't it most time for you to go to bed?" whispered Mr. Ringgan when he thought the purpose was effected. "Shall I tell Cynthy to get you your milk, grandpa ?” said the little girl rousing herself. "Yes dear.-Stop,-what if you and me was to have some roast apples ?—wouldn't you like it?" "Well-yes, I should, grandpa," said Fleda, understanding perfectly why he wished it, and wishing it herself for that same reason and no other. Cynthy, let's have some of those roast apples,” said Mr. Ringgan, "and a couple of bowls of milk here." แ No, I'll get the apples myself, Cynthy," said Fleda. "And you needn't take any of the cream off, Cynthy," added Mr. Ringgan. One corner of the kitchen table was hauled up to the fire, to be comfortable, Fleda said, and she and her grandfather sat down on the opposite sides of it to do honour to the apples and milk; each with the simple intent of keeping up appearances and cheating the other into cheerfulness. There is however, deny it who can, an exhilarating effect in good wholesome food taken when one is in some need of it; and Fleda at least found the supper relish exceeding well. Every one furthermore knows the relief of a hearty flow of tears when a secret weight has been pressing on the mind. She was just ready for anything reviving. After the third mouthful she began to talk, and before the bottom of the bowls was reached she had smiled more than once. So her grandfather thought no harm was done, and went to bed quite comforted; and Fleda climbed the steep stairs that led from his door to her little chamber just over his head. It was small and mean, immediately under the roof, with only one window. There were plenty of better rooms in the house, but Fleda liked this because it kept her near her grandfather; and indeed she had always had it ever since her father's death, and never thought of taking any other. She had a fashion, this child, in whom the simplicity of practical life and the poetry of imaginative life were curiously blended,-she had a fashion of going to her window every night when the moon or stars were shining to look out for a minute or two before she went to bed; and sometimes the minutes were more than any good grandmother or aunt would have considered wholesome for little Fleda in the fresh night air. But there was no one to watch or reprimand; and whatever it was that Fleda read in earth or sky, the charm which held her one bright night was sure to bring her to her window the next. This evening a faint young moon lighted up but dimly the meadow and what was called the "east-hill," over-against which the window in question looked. The air was calm and mild; there was no frost to-night; the stillness was entire, and the stars shone in a cloudless sky. Fleda set open the window and looked out with a face that again bore tokens of the experiences of that day. She wanted the soothing speech of nature's voice; and child as she was she could hear it. She did not know, in her simplicity, what it was that comforted and soothed her, but she stood at her window enjoying. It was so perfectly still, her fancy presently went to all those people who had hushed their various work and were now resting, or soon would be, in the unconsciousness and the helplessness of sleep. The helplessness,—and then that Eye that never sleeps; that Hand that keeps them all, that is never idle, that is the safety and the strength alike of all the earth and of them that wake or sleep upon it, "And if he takes care of them all, will he not take care of poor little me?" thought Fleda. "Oh how glad I am I know there is a God!-How glad I am I know he is such a God! and that I can trust in him; and he will make everything go right. How I forget this sometimes! But Jesus does not forget his children. Oh I am a happy little girl!-Grandpa's saying what he did don't make it soperhaps I shall die the first-but I hope not, for what would become of him!-But this and everything will all be arranged right, and I have nothing to do with it but to obey God and please him, and he will take care of the rest. He has forbidden us to be careful about it too." With grateful tears of relief Fleda shut the window and began to undress herself, her heart so lightened of its burden that her thoughts presently took leave to go out again upon pleasure excursions in various directions; and one of the last things in Fleda's mind before sleep surprised her was, what a nice thing it was for any one to bow and smile so as Mr. Carleton did! CHAPTER III. I know each lane, and every alley green, MILTON. FLE LEDA and her grandfather had but just risen from a tolerably early breakfast the next morning, when the two young sportsmen entered the room. "Ha!" said Mr. Ringgan,-"I declare! you're stirring betimes. Come five or six miles this morning a'ready. Well-that's the stuff to make sportsmen of. Off for the woodcock, hey?—And I was to go with you and shew_you the ground.—I declare I don't know how in the world I can do it this morning, l'am so very stiff-ten times as bad as I was yesterday. I had a window open in my room last night, I expect that must have been the cause. I don't see how I could have overlooked it, but I never gave it a thought, till this morning I found myself so lame I could hardly get out of bed.—I am very sorry, upon my word!" "It "I am very sorry we must lose your company, sir," said the young Englishman, "and for such a cause; but as to the rest!-I dare say your directions will guide us sufficiently." "I don't know about that," said the old gentleman. is pretty hard to steer by a chart that is only laid down in the imagination. I set out once to go in New York from one side of the city over into the other, and the first thing I knew I found myself travelling along half a mile out of town. I had to get in a stage and ride back and take a fresh start. Out at the West they say when you are in the woods you can tell which is north by the moss growing on that side of the trees; but if you're lost you'll be pretty apt to find the moss grows on all sides of the trees. I |