a little bed,
with dimity curtains of snowy whiteness, a deal table, and two
straw chairs.

"This is a nice room," she said; "but come to the window, and
you will see one of my reasons."

She threw up the sash, and pointed with her little hand to the
village church, which rose in quiet beauty from among the
leafless trees.

"Is it not pretty?" she asked, with a smile.

"Very pretty," I answered; and as I used her own simple words,
I felt that there was that in them, said as she said them,
that is often wanting in pages of impassioned eloquence, in
volumes of elaborate composition,--_reality_. She was happy in
this place, because of her little room, and because of the
view of the village church, which she could see from its
window. How pure must be the mind, how calm must be the life,
when such a circumstance can give a colouring to it.

"Alice, have you no books? I see none here."

"I have a few; do you wish to see them?"

"Yes, I do; I should like to know what books you like."

"Then I must show you another of my _reasons_," she said, with
one of her sweet, calm smiles, and opened the door of another
very small room, which had no other entrance than through her
own.

There was a little table in it, and a wooden stool; both were
placed near the window. Upon the table lay two books--one was
a Bible, the other a large prayer-book, bound in red morocco,
and illustrated with prints. A shelf hung in one comer;
"Jeremy Taylor's Holy Living and Dying," the "Pilgrim's
Progress," "Bishop Heber's Hymns," and a few more books
besides, were ranged upon it. Among them, a small one, which I
was well acquainted with, called "Birds and Flowers,"
attracted my attention. I asked Alice if she had read it
through.

"Yes, I have," she replied. "Mr. Henry gave it me a few months
ago."

I involuntarily started, and looked up into her face, as she
said this; but not a shade of embarrassment was to be seen
there.

She went on to say--"He gave it to me because I was so fond of
this poor flower;" and she pointed to a sickly creeping plant,
that grew out of a pot, which was placed on the window sill.

"You would not know it again now," she continued; "but last
summer it was growing against the wall in the little patch of
garden we had at Bromley, and a beautiful flower it was."

"But what had it to do with this book, more than any other
flower, Alice?"

"It is a little story, but I will tell it you if you wish it.
I sprai