y of a grave household a child's influence is
magical. As the sight of a butterfly out at sea brings up thoughts of
shady alleys and woodbine-covered windows, of "the grass and the flowers
among the grass," so will a child's light step and merry voice throw a
whole flood of sunny associations over the sad-colored quietude of some
old house. Clara was every one's companion and everywhere,--with Charles
as he fished, with May Leslie in the flower-garden, with old Sir
William in the orangery, or looking over pictures beside him in the
long-galleried library.

Mrs. Morris herself was yet too great an invalid for an active life. Her
chair would be wheeled out into the lawn, under the shade of an immense
weeping-ash, and there, during the day, as to some "general staff," came
all the "reports" of what was doing each morning. Newspapers and books
would be littered about her, and even letters brought her to read, from
dear friends, with whose names conversation had made her familiar. A
portion of time was, however, reserved for Clara's lessons, which no
plan or project was ever suffered to invade.

It may seem a somewhat dreary invitation if we ask our readers to assist
at one of these mornings. Pinnock and Mrs. Barbauld and Mangnall are,
perhaps, not the company to their taste, nor will they care to cast up
multiplications, or stumble through the blotted French exercise. Well,
we can only pledge ourselves not to exaggerate the infliction of
these evils. And now to our task. It is about eleven o'clock of a fine
summer's day, in Italy; Mrs. Morris sits at her embroidery-frame, under
the long-branched willow; Clara, at a table near, is drawing, her long
silky curls falling over the paper, and even interfering with her work,
as is shown by an impatient toss of her head, or even a hastier gesture,
as with her hands she flings them back upon her neck.

"It was to Charley I said it, mamma," said she, without lifting her
head, and went on with her work.

"Have I not told you, already, to call him Mr. Charles Heathcote, or Mr.
Heathcote, Clara?"

"But he says he won't have it."

"What an expression,--'won't have it'!"

"Well, I know," cried she, with impatience; and then laughingly said, "I
've forgot, in a hurry, old dear Lindley Murray."

"I beg of you to give up that vile trash of doggerel rhyme. And now what
was it you said to Mr. Heathcote?"

"I told him that I was an only child,--'a violet on a grassy bank, in
sweetnes