cept the
supplement, aloud to Mrs. Ashleigh in her daughter's presence. I desired
to see if Faber's descriptions of the country and its life, which in
themselves were extremely spirited and striking, would arouse Lilian's
interest. At first she did not seem to heed me while I read; but when
I came to Faber's loving account of little Amy, Lilian turned her eyes
towards me, and evidently listened with attention. He wrote how the
child had already become the most useful person in the simple household.
How watchful the quickness of the heart had made the service of the eye;
all their associations of comfort had grown round her active, noiseless
movements; it was she who bad contrived to monopolize the management,
or supervision, of all that added to Home the nameless, interior charm.
Under her eyes the rude furniture of the log-house grew inviting with
English neatness; she took charge of the dairy; she had made the garden
gay with flowers selected from the wild, and suggested the trellised
walk, already covered with hardy vine. She was their confidant in every
plan of improvement, their comforter in every anxious doubt, their nurse
in every passing ailment, her very smile a refreshment in the weariness
of daily toil. "How all that is best in womanhood," wrote the old man,
with the enthusiasm which no time had reft from his hearty, healthful
genius,--"how all that is best in womanhood is here opening fast into
flower from the bud of the infant's soul! The atmosphere seems to suit
it,--the child-woman in the child-world!"

I heard Lilian sigh; I looked towards her furtively; tears stood in her
softened eyes; her lip was quivering. Presently, she began to rub her
right hand over the left--over the wedding-ring--at first slowly; then
with quicker movement.

"It is not here," she said impatiently; "it is not here!"

"What is not here?" asked Mrs. Ashleigh, hanging over her.

Lilian leaned back her head on her mother's bosom, and answered
faintly,--

"The stain! Some one said there was a stain on this hand. I do not see
it, do you?"

"There is no stain, never was," said I; "the hand is white as your own
innocence, or the lily from which you take your name."

"Hush! you do not know my name. I will whisper it. Soft!--my name is
Nightshade! Do you want to know where the lily is now, brother? I will
tell you. There, in that letter. You call her Amy,--she is the
lily; take her to your breast, hide her. Hist! what are those be