and held it on her hand, in the air. The poor bird turned a languid and sickly eye around it, as if the sight of the crowded houses and busy streets presented nothing familiar or inviting; and it was not till Lucy, with a tender courage, shook it gently from her, that it availed itself of the proffered liberty. It flew first to an opposite balcony, and then recovering from a short and, as it were, surprised pause, took a brief circuit above the houses, and after disappearing for a few minutes, flew back, circled the window, and re-entering, settled once more on the fair form of its mistress and nestled into her bosom.
Lucy covered it with kisses. "You see it will not leave me!" said she.
"Who can?" said the uncle warmly, charmed for the moment from every thought, but that of kindness for the young and soft creature before him;—"Who can?" he repeated with a sigh, "but an old and withered ascetic like myself. I must leave you indeed; see, my carriage is at the door! Will my beautiful niece, among the
