t of a boy,
until he reached a most attractive little path winding away across the
fields. The gate swung invitingly open, and all the ground before it
was blue with violets. Still following their guidance he took the
narrow path, till, coming to a mossy stone beside a brook, he sat down
to listen to the blackbirds singing deliciously in the willows over
head. Close by the stone, half hidden in the grass lay a little book,
and, taking it up he found it was a pocket-diary. No name appeared on
the fly-leaf, and, turning the pages to find some clue to its owner,
he read here and there enough to give him glimpses into an innocent
and earnest heart which seemed to be learning some hard lesson
patiently. Only near the end did he find the clue in words of his own,
spoken long ago, and a name. Then, though longing intensely to know
more, he shut the little book and went on, showing by his altered face
that the simple record of a girl's life had touched him deeply.

Soon an old house appeared nestling to the hillside with the river
shining in the low green meadows just before it.

"She lives there," he said, with as much certainty as if the pansies
by the door-stone spelt her name, and, knocking, he asked for Psyche.

"She's gone to town, but I expect her home every minute. Ask the
gentleman to walk in and wait, Katy," cried a voice from above, where
the whisk of skirts was followed by the appearance of an inquiring eye
over the banisters.

The gentleman did walk in, and while he waited looked about him. The
room, though very simply furnished, had a good deal of beauty in it,
for the pictures were few and well chosen, the books such as never
grow old, the music lying on the well-worn piano of the sort which is
never out of fashion, and standing somewhat apart was one small statue
in a recess full of flowers. Lovely in its simple grace and truth was
the figure of a child looking upward as if watching the airy flight of
some butterfly which had evidently escaped from the chrysalis still
lying in the little hand.

Paul was looking at it with approving eyes when Mrs. Dean appeared
with his card in her hand, three shawls on her shoulders, and in her
face a somewhat startled expression, as if she expected some novel
demonstration from the man whose genius her daughter so much admired.

"I hope Miss Psyche is well," began Paul, with great discrimination if
not originality.

The delightfully commonplace remark tranquillized Mrs.