ch they had loitered away the hours, had bathed
them with the perfume of its blossoms.

"Oh, mamma, it is so pleasant!" cried Lina, stealing forward and seating
herself on a cushion at Mabel's feet. "Isn't this a beautiful, beautiful
day?"

"All days are beautiful to the light-hearted," answered Mabel, burying
her hand fondly in the golden curls that fell, a perfect network of
light, from Lina's drooping head. "I thought it very dull and heavy this
morning; now, the air seems invigorating as old wine. Still, I think the
day itself has changed but little."

"Hasn't it?" questioned Lina, looking up tenderly through the sunny mist
of her hair. "But you are so much better, and look so blooming--perhaps
it is that."

"Perhaps," said Ralph, stooping down and kissing his mother's forehead,
"it's because we are all together again; even this room seems like a
desert, when our lady mother is absent. This should be a gala day with
us; what shall we do, Lina? Crown her with roses, or bring an offering
of fruit and nuts from the hills."

"I will give her some music," answered Lina, springing up and taking her
guitar from a sofa, where it had been lying, neglected and untuned;
"mamma shall have a serenade."

Lina flung the broad, blue ribbon attached to the guitar over her neck;
and, seating herself again, began to tune her instrument, with her
pleasant eyes lifted to Mabel's face.

"Now, what shall it be about," she inquired, casting a half-coquettish
look at Ralph, and blushing like a damask rose beneath the brightness of
his eyes. "What shall I sing about, mamma?"

"Oh, love, sing of nothing but love, to-day, sweet Lina," whispered
Ralph, as he stooped down and pretended to adjust the ribbon over her
white neck.

"Shall I, mamma?" said Lina.

"Sing anything that pleases you," answered Mabel.

"Then it shall be some lines, mamma, that I found in an old book in the
library, with the leaves of a white rose folded in the paper. It was
yellow with age, and so were the poor, dead leaves. I took it to my
room, learned it by heart, and found out that it went by the music of an
old song which Ralph and I used to sing together. That is all I know
about love," continued the rogue, with a blush and a glance upward.

"Well, well, pretty torment, begin," whispered Ralph, again busy with
the ribbon.

For a moment, Lina's little hand fluttered like a bird over the strings
of her guitar; then it made a graceful dash, and her voice