dith's bright head was again covered with its golden
wealth of curls, and her merry laughter echoed joyously through the
halls and parlors of the proud mansion. It seemed her greatest delight
to bring a smile to the wan cheek of her mother, who was failing slowly,
even beneath the genial influence of a summer sun.

As Florence stood on the vine-curtained terrace one balmy August
morning, inhaling the sweet air, and listening to the thrilling
warblings of Edith's pet canaries, as they swung in their wire-wrought
cages from the roof above, she beheld Willie Danforth coming up the
garden path, holding a letter toward her in his cunning, tempting way.
She extended her hand to receive it.

"No," said he, suddenly drawing it back. "I don't think I'll let you
have this tiny little missive, unless you will first promise to tell me
who is the writer."

"Why, how can I tell you till I know myself?" said she, still reaching
for the letter, which he continued to withhold, smiling at her eager,
impatient aspect.

His frolicsome habit of teasing gently any one he loved always reminded
her of Edgar Lindenwood, and he was very like his cousin in personal
appearance. So thought Florence; and he and his mother, who lived in a
room of Dea. Allen's cottage, just across the garden, became marked
favorites of hers.

At length Willie gave her the letter. She broke the seal quickly, and
hurried through the contents.

"I'll tell you who 'tis from, gladly," said she, with a bright smile;
"for I fancy it will afford you pleasure to know. Do you remember a
little girl, named Ellen Williams, who used to trip over the piazza we
stand on now?"

The young man's face brightened and blushed as he replied eagerly,

"That do I, and her brother Neddie."

"Well, they are both coming here to make me a nice, long visit," said
she, in a delighted tone. "Is not this happy news?"

"It is, indeed," answered Willie; "but where did you make their
acquaintance, Florence?"

"During the period of my travels they were my constant companions. I
recollect how eagerly Ellen inquired for you, when we first met at
Niagara; but I was then almost ignorant of your existence, and could
give her no satisfactory information. I told her there was a youth I had
heard called Willie Greyson, who lived with a hermit; and she said
Greyson was your mother's maiden name; but so dutiful and affectionate a
son as you would never leave a lonely, widowed parent to dwell with a