was, indeed, one of those beings whom it is almost impossible not to love. There was such a total abstinence of all selfishness about her, such a wish to make others happy at whatever sacrifice to her own feelings and wishes, such a sweetness of temper and complacency, and so much animation sparkled in her eyes when she heard those praised whom she loved, that she was looked up to by her family as a being almost too perfect for this world. Less handsome than her sister, and perfectly aware that this was the case, she was indebted to the expression of her countenance for that admiration she generally excited. Born in a sphere of life which, from its seclusion, tranquillity, and peace, scarcely admitted a thought of ambition, Mary went on in the even tenor of her way, as retired and as quiet as the little brooklet which meandered at the foot of the Vicar's garden. Mary was, however, formed to love and to be loved, and her parents knew that whenever she bestowed her heart it would be with an intenseness of no common kind. Such was Mary, a character seldom met with in the haunts of gaiety and fashion.

After the first greeting was over, Mary gently took the basket containing the trout from her father, and after looking into it, and giving him a smile of congratulation, she walked with it to the house in order to give the necessary directions to

have the contents dressed for dinner; that part of the economy of the house being under her management, and no one could conduct it better. On the present occasion the trout were excellent- the small leg of Dartmoor Forest mutton was roasted to perfection, and two plump chickens looked very inviting. Then there was the goodly codling tart, and that delicious thick cream of Devonshire, so much to be commended, and reminding us of the lines of the poet

their entertainment at the height,

In cream and codlings rev'ling with delight.

Let not this account of a vicarial feast be despised. It was spread before the happy party in all the luxury of extreme neatness and propriety, and was succeeded by a bottle of the Vicar's old port, which he kept for extraordinary occasions. Having filled his glass, and bestowed a look of admiration on its brilliant, ruby-like contents, he welcomed his son and his friend in those accents of kindness and good will, which always find their way to the heart.

In the evening Lucy played and sang, while Mary was employed in needle-work, Mr. Davenport sitting by her side, and occasionally conversing with her. The Vicar talked with his

son on his future prospects in life, while the happy mother occasionally raised her eyes from her worsted-work to gaze on the assembled group; or mentioned some little village anecdote, which she had picked up in her morning. stroll.

At nine o'clock supper was announced; that hospitable meal which is now, alas! so seldom to be met with. Who, however, does not delight in those noctes cœnæque, to which, in the good old times of our forefathers, neighbours were invited, and partook of a repast at which harmless jests and a social glass amply made up for the more expensive late dinners of modern times. On these occasions the heart expands with feelings of kindness and good-will to each other; and so it was with the party at the vicarage. There was that delightful cheerfulness and hilarity, which is generally to be met with in a family united together by love and affection. The Vicar called Lucy to his side, and, in a half whisper, asked her to sing his favourite song "On the Daffodil." Lucy looked at Mr. Davenport, and then at her father, with somewhat of a distressed countenance, but upon the request being repeated, she leant on the back of his chair, and holding down her head a little, she sang the following verses; which, as they are not generally known, may not be unacceptable to the lovers of ancient poetry.

Faire Daffodills, we weep to see

You haste away so soone;
As yet the early rising sun

Has not attain'd his noone :

Stay, stay,

Untill the hast'ning day

Has run

But to the even-song;

And, having pray'd together, we
Will goe with you along!

We have short time to stay as you:

We have as short a spring,

As quick a growth to meet decay,

As you, or any thing:

We die,

As your hours doe; and drie

Away

Like to the summer's raine,

Or as the pearles of morning dew,
Ne'er to be found again.*

Lucy sang this song, which had been set to music for her by a neighbouring clergyman, with great good taste and feeling, and was rewarded by a grateful look from her father.

"I love the daffodil," said the Vicar; "it is amongst the earliest of our spring flowers, and almost seems to have been created to embellish a poor man's garden, and to decorate his little orchard; for it is there, I always think, it appears

* HERRICK.

to the greatest advantage. Shakspeare refers to

their early appearance —

Daffodils,

That come before the swallow dares, and take

The winds of March with beauty.

"Well, papa," replied Lucy, "you may admire the daffodil, but the snow-drop and the lily of the valley are my favourites. The former bursts upon us as soon as the snow is melted, and rivals it in purity; but the lily has a still more delicate whiteness, while its extreme modesty makes it hide itself amidst a profusion of leaves, and its delightful fragrance is only known when it is exposed to view." Lucy blushed while she gave utterance to this panegyric on her favourite flowers.

"A pretty moral might be derived from it," said the Vicar, while Davenport added —

To the curious eye

A little servitor presents her page

Of choice instruction with her snowy bells,

The lily of the vale. She nor affects

The public walk, nor gaze of mid-day sun :

She to no state or dignity aspires,

But silent and alone puts on her suit,

-

And sheds her lasting perfume, but for which

We had not known there was a thing so sweet

Hid in the gloomy shade.

To be secure,

Be humble; to be happy, be content.*

* HURDIS.