gentle breeze, and again her breath loaded the air with fragrance, like the aroma of a crushed flower.
"And what gift will you bestow upon this pearl of purity?" she asked, gliding noiselessly towards the cradle.
Love unutterable beamed from the mother's eyes when they rested upon that snow-drop of infancy. As she hesitated and pondered, the fairy said, softly, "You have gifted the others, leave the choice of her gift to me."
"Oh, gladly!" replied the mother, "but let it not be inferior to theirs."
"My gift to little Viola," responded the fairy, "is the sweet faculty of making the best of everything through life? Of trials and sufferings, as of pleasures and triumphs, she shall make the best!"
The mother half started from her pillow with an exclamation of disappointment and remonstrance, but the golden light faded, the effulgent rainbow vanished, the unsubstantial form melted away; the roseate dye, reflected from the silken curtains, prevaded the room as before. Cornelia was half inclined to believe that she had slept, and the sudden movement had awakened her from a delicious dream.
Time passed. In a few years Roland began to be regarded as a prodigy. His talents excited general wonder and admiration. He drew and painted with surprising ease; his musical powers seemed a sort of instinct; he was a natural poet, too, and
