"Mamma, I could'nt find the book in either of the places you told me to look for it," (there was a conscious something in mamma's smile that seemed to say, "No, dear, I knew you could not,") "but Rachel got it for me at last. Look, Mr. Markham, a natural history with all kinds of birds and beasts in it, and the reading as nice as the pictures!"
In great good humour, I sat down to examine the book and drew the little fellow between my knees. Had he come a minute before, I should have received him less graciously, but now I affectionately stroked his curling locks, and even kissed his ivory forehead: he was my own Helen's son, and therefore mine; and as such I have ever since regarded him. That pretty child is now a fine young man: he has realized his mother's brightest expectations, and is at present residing in Grass-dale manor with his young wife, the merry little Helen Hattersley, of yore.
I had not looked through half the book, be-
