Her playful smile, her buoyance wild, Bespeak the gentle, mirthful child; But in her forehead's broad expanse, Her chastened tones, her thoughtful glance, Is mingled, with the child's light glee, The modest maiden's dignity.

One summer's day, two years after the ball and review, Mary Ross and her father were finishing their early dinner, when she said,-'If you don't want me this afternoon, papa, I think I shall walk to Hollywell. You know Eveleen de Courcy is there.'

'No, I did not. What has brought her?'

'As Charles expresses it, she has over-polked herself in London, and is sent here for quiet and country air. I want to call on her, and to ask Sir Guy to give me some idea as to the singing the children should practise for the school-feast?'

'Then you think Sir Guy will come to the feast?'

'I reckon on him to conceal all the deficiencies in the children's singing.'

'He won't desert you, as he did Mrs. Brownlow?'

'O papa! you surely did not think him to blame in that affair?'

'Honestly, Mary, if I thought about the matter at all, I thought it a pity he should go so much to the Brownlows.'

'I believe I could tell you the history, if you thought it worth while; and though it may be gossip, I should like you to do justice to Sir Guy.'