"But when you are gone, I suppose I may dance a little?" replied Olga.

"Dance?" repeated Clarice in dismay.

"Yes, dance!" reiterated Olga, laying rather a dogged emphasis on the word. "Of course I said dance; what else can I do when I'm quite alone? Why, even a mouse does that!”

"Does it?" questioned Clarice, very doubtfully.

"Oh dear, yes!" replied Olga with decision, always, and sings too. Did you never hear of singing mice? But of course I won't sing,—that's noisy, and I'm far too reasonable to wish it; but you might let me dance, dear Clarice! just a very little."

"Well, perhaps," said Clarice, "a very little, and very quietly."

"Oh, so quietly!" replied Olga,—“ on tiptoe-in a whisper-under my breath."

And she began dancing as a fairy in a state of somnambulism, might dance, in a spectacle on the

stage.

"That's quite safe-now, isn't it?" she said

pleadingly.

Clarice shook her head at her, and said she must not do it, with one atom more spirit than that, and then she ran out into the garden.

On that lovely July afternoon, in an English garden full of roses, there was no difficulty in finding flowers to make a drawing-room pretty. Clarice almost doubted whether she would gather anything but roses, when she had filled her basket with the splendid creatures, - purple, damask, crimson, pink, blush, yellow, and white,-such a variety in shape and colour, and yet all the same flower. She buried her face in their fresh fragrance with a sensation of delight, and a quick wish that they themselves received as much pleasure from their beauty as they gave to others. Perhaps they do, she thought; they surely must, and their delicious scent is their way of thanking God for making them so beautiful. It is what music is to us,—it is a hymn. And then she