“I cannot tell you how lovely the day is, Mamma, every thing is so fresh, and the shadows and lights are so good!  I have immortalized our poor old friend the oak, before they cut him down,” added she, smiling, as she placed the drawing in her mother’s hands.  “I wish the forest belonged to some one who had not this cruel taste for turning knotted oak trees into fancy work-tables.  It is as bad as what Charles Lamb said of the firs, ’which look so romantic alive, and die into desks.’—­Die into desks!” repeated Hermione musingly, as she seated herself on the sofa, and took up a book that was before her on the table; mechanically removing her bonnet from her head, and laying it down by her side as she spoke.

And here for some time there was a silence, during which Hermione’s mother ceased reading, and, lifting up her eyes, looked at her daughter with mingled love, admiration, and interest.  “I wish I had her picture so,” dreamt the poor lady, as she gazed; “so earnest, and understanding, and yet so simple, and kind!—­There is but one difficulty for her in life,” was the next thought; “with such keen enjoyment of this world, such appreciation of the beauties, and wonders, and delights of God’s creations on earth—­to keep the eye of faith firmly fixed on the ‘better and more enduring inheritance,’ to which both she and I, but I trust she, far behind, are hastening.  Yet, by God’s blessing, and with Christian training, and the habit of active charity, and the vicissitudes of life, I have few or no fears.  But such capability of happiness in this world is a great temptation, and I sometimes fancy must therefore have been a Fairy gift.”  And here the no longer young Mother of Hermione fell into a reverie, and a long pause ensued, during which Ambrosia felt very sad, for it grieved her to think that the good and reasonable Mother should be so much afraid of Fairy gifts, even when the result had been so favourable.

A note at length interrupted the prolonged silence.  It was from Aurora the Beauty, whose Father possessed a large estate in the neighbourhood, and who had just then come into the country for a few weeks.  Aurora earnestly requested Hermione and her Mother to visit her.

“I will do as you wish,” said Hermione, looking rather grave; “but really a visit to Aurora is a sort of small misfortune.”

“I hope you are not envious of her beauty, Hermione?  Take care.”

“Nay, you are cruel, Mamma, now.  I should like to be handsome, but not at the expense of being so very dull in spirits as poor Aurora often is.  But really, unless you have ever spent an hour alone with her, you can form no idea of how tired one gets.”

“What of, Hermione? of her face?”

“Oh no, not of her face; it is charming, and by the way you have just put into my head how I may escape from being tired, even if I am left alone with her for hours!”

“Nay, now you really puzzle me, my dear; I suggested nothing but looking at her face.”