grace in every movement, even in the easy indolence of her position, as she bent on one knee to curl Lillian’s locks over her finger.  On the upper step, in the rear of these two, sat a girl whose age could not have been very accurately guessed from her countenance, and whose features contrasted strangely with those of her companions.  At a first casual glance, one thought her rather homely, nay, decidedly ugly; yet, to the curious physiognomist, this face presented greater attractions than either of the others.  Reader, I here paint you the portrait of that quiet little figure whose history is contained in the following pages.  A pair of large gray eyes set beneath an overhanging forehead, a boldly projecting forehead, broad and smooth; a rather large but finely cut mouth, an irreproachable nose, of the order furthest removed from aquiline, and heavy black eyebrows, which, instead of arching, stretched straight across and nearly met.  There was not a vestige of color in her cheeks; face, neck, and hands wore a sickly pallor, and a mass of rippling, jetty hair, drawn smoothly over the temples, rendered this marble-like whiteness more apparent.  Unlike the younger children, Beulah was busily sewing upon what seemed the counterpart of their aprons; and the sad expression of the countenance, the lips firmly compressed, as if to prevent the utterance of complaint, showed that she had become acquainted with cares and sorrows, of which they were yet happily ignorant.  Her eyes were bent down on her work, and the long, black lashes nearly touched her cold cheeks.

“Sister Beulah, ought Claudy to say that?” cried Lillian, turning round and laying her hand upon the piece of sewing.

“Say what, Lilly?  I was not listening to you.”

“She said she hoped that largest robin redbreast would get drunk and tumble down.  He would be sure to bump some of his pretty bright feathers out, if he rolled over the shells two or three times,” answered Lilly, pointing to a China tree near, where a flock of robins were eagerly chirping over the feast of berries.

“Why, Claudy! how can you wish the poor little fellow such bad luck?” The dark, thoughtful eyes, full of deep meaning, rested on Claudia’s radiant face.

“Oh! you need not think I am a bear, or a hawk, ready to swallow the darling little beauty alive!  I would not have him lose a feather for the world; but I should like the fun of seeing him stagger and wheel over and over, and tumble off the limb, so that I might run and catch him in my apron.  Do you think I would give him to our matron to make a pie?  No, you might take off my fingers first!” And the little elf snapped them emphatically in Beulah’s face.

“Make a pie of robies, indeed!  I would starve before I would eat a piece of it,” chimed in Lilly, with childish horror at the thought.

Claudia laughed with mingled mischief and chagrin.  “You say you would not eat a bit of roby-pie to save your life?  Well, you did it last week, anyhow.”