CHAPTER VI.

UNCLE PAUL'S BIRTHDAY; "MAGGIE'S DAISIES, OR THE VALUE OF A GIFT;" AND "LITTLE FLORELLA, OR THE WISHING-TEMPLE."

HOW fast the hours passed at Hay-Lodge! Nay, the very days themselves seemed but like hours, so absorbed were the children in the new sights and sounds by which they were surrounded. But while each day brought with it so many sources of amusement and satisfaction, it also brought their visit so much the nearer to a close. Bernard's vacation was fast drawing to an end, and, despite the attractions of Hay-Lodge, he knew he must soon be at school again, and hard at work. Mrs. Ingram, too, began to talk of her home in the great city, and to say that she must soon return thither; but Uncle Paul said that they could not be spared until after his birthday, which would be on the 28th of July. He talked matters over with Mrs. Ingram, and she gladly consented to stay "so long," in compliance with his request.

"And now," said Uncle Paul, "I mean to have a party on my birthday."

"I am sure you ought to have one for yourself, uncle," said little Kate; "mamma always lets me have some little girls to tea on mine."

"And so you think I ought to have little girls to tea on my birthday, do you?" asked Uncle Paul, holding her fast by one of her curls until she answered him.

"No, Uncle Paul; you ought to have grown-up people, of course—not little girls. Besides, we have either had visitors, or gone out every day since we came. It must be 'your' turn to have a big party."

Uncle Paul laughed at the idea of his taking his turn to have a party, but said he was much obliged to Kate for not wanting any little girls to be invited on the occasion.

During the week which preceded Uncle Paul's birthday, not only he, but the children in their turns, had a great deal of whispering, and held many mysterious conferences with Mrs. Ingram. The children guessed that their uncle was planning the various arrangements to be made before the "grown-up party," as Kate called it, could take place. For their own parts, they were contriving what they could offer him as birthday-presents; and they did the best in their power to shew their affection for their kind relative, by denying themselves something for his sake.

They had not long to prepare their little offerings, for until Uncle Paul himself spoke of his birthday, they were not aware that it was near at hand.

Bernard was at first rather at a loss what to do. He had never had a large allowance of pocket-money, but it so happened that at this particular time he possessed a sum which he had been accumulating for nearly two years. The boy was extremely fond of drawing, and even of carving in wood, but he was often much at a loss for materials for his work. In order to obtain a box of colours, some mathematical instruments, and other little matters, he had saved during all that time every penny he could spare; and he had amassed so much that he intended to purchase and take back to school with him the much-wished for articles at the end of the vacation.

Bernard had enough, but nothing to spare; and he could only purchase a birthday-gift for his uncle, by taking a portion of his hoard for that purpose. He consulted with his mother, told her what she indeed knew already, and said: "Dear mamma, what shall I do?"

"Follow your own inclination in the matter, Bernard," replied Mrs. Ingram. "The money is your own; and if you choose to use it for a different purpose from that for which you saved it, the cost will be yours only. But I must remind you that I shall not have it in my power to buy you the colours and instruments; for the cost of your education at a distance, and Marian's at home, leaves me nothing to spare at present."

Bernard hesitated, considered, and decided.

"Mother," he said, "I believe I shall feel even more pleasure in the thought that I have denied myself what I wish for, in order to shew my affection and respect for dear Uncle Paul, who has been so good to us, than I should in the possession of the articles I meant to buy."

And so it "was" decided.

On the morning of Uncle Paul's birthday, when he entered the conservatory to pay his usual visit, he found, on the shelf where the injured plant once stood, a beautiful and rare one of a different species. It was Bernard's offering. A little note was fastened to one of its branches, containing his nephew's good-wishes, and begging that Uncle Paul would allow the new plant to occupy the spot in which it was then placed.

In the drawing-room, Uncle Paul found another gift. It was a beautiful leather-work frame—a monument of the perseverance with which Marian had learned to labour during the short time she could devote to it before the arrival of the important day. It enclosed one of Bernard's drawings, which the boy had given to his sister on his return from school. Marian prized it highly as her brother's gift, but thought it all the more suitable on that account to shew her love for Uncle Paul.

Last amongst the children's offerings came a little paper-parcel, which lay beside his plate. In it was a book-marker, by no means a beautiful specimen of workmanship; but nobody can guess what an amount of labour it cost little Kate, who had never attempted to do such a complicated affair before. Of course, she never would have completed it at all, but for mamma's supervision; and it would be hard to count how many times it had been picked out and put in again. And there was the queerest note along with it! Printed all awry with a lead-pencil, something like this:

[Illustration: DEAR UNCLE PAUL. ACCEPT THIS WITH KATES LOVE.]

I almost think this note had taken as much printing, and puzzled Kate's head as much as many a whole book does its author.

Uncle Paul was just the person to appreciate at their full value these gifts from his nephew and nieces. He knew very well that it is not by the mere money-value that the worth of a gift should be estimated. He was aware also of the actual price of such a plant as Bernard had purchased for him, and considered that both he and Marian had shewn not a little delicacy and judgment in selecting their presents. The former appeared to be desirous of gratifying his uncle's love for flowers, as well as of proving that he wished to bear in mind the error into which he had been led in not daring to tell the truth, though he uttered no falsehood. And Marian, too, could anything have evinced more plainly that she remembered her old bad habit of beginning but not completing her work, than the perseverance she must have shewn, and the industry with which she must have laboured, to finish the beautiful frame in so short a time.

"My darlings," said Uncle Paul, as he thanked them warmly for their presents, "I find that my preaching has been taken in a right spirit, and has induced you to reduce precept to practice."

As to Kate, the child "was" delighted to see with what genuine admiration her uncle looked at her book-marker and the note with the queer-shaped letters.

"It is a very little thing, uncle," said the child, "but I could not do a better."

She held up her rosy mouth for a kiss, and when lifted on her uncle's knee, she caressed his white hair so lovingly with her plump hands, that he exclaimed: "O Kate, Kate, I can tell that you are giving the old man something better than even all the book-markers in the world!"

"What is that, Uncle Paul?" asked she with wondering face, and eyes wide open.

"The love of a fresh, young, innocent heart, my little darling!" replied he, as he kissed her fondly. "O children," he added, "I shall find it very hard to become accustomed to loneliness again; I shall miss your cheery voices, and the sound of your feet in the house! Why did you twine yourselves so closely round old Uncle Paul's heart?"

Mrs. Ingram's cheeks were wet with glad tears as she heard him speak thus affectionately of her children, and they all exclaimed: "Dear uncle, who could help loving you? It will be very hard for us to part with you."

"Well, I shall not make my birthday miserable by talking about it, so let us think of my big party. Shall we, Miss Kate? I want to know where you all intend to put yourselves when the grown-up ladies and gentlemen come?"

That question had never occurred to the youngsters, and they looked one at another, wondering if Uncle Paul really meant to send them off out of the way of his guests.

He laughed at their perplexed faces, and said: "After all, I think 'you' must be at my 'big party;' you will find some guests to talk to."

It turned out at last that Uncle Paul's was indeed a "big party," as Kate said, but of young folks like themselves; for he had invited all the children with whom they had become acquainted during their stay at Hay-Lodge, to pay them one more visit before Bernard went back to school. There were carriages—no wagon this time—to take the youngsters to see a beautiful ruined abbey, several miles away, and one of the prettiest places in the neighbourhood. How they all enjoyed the drive and the dinner, not forgetting Uncle Paul's birthday plum-pudding—such a monstrous size it was—when they came back!

Then there were games on the lawn and in-doors. And the children built up an arbour of green-boughs on a plan of their own, and decked it with garlands; and one of the young visitors thought Uncle Paul ought to be crowned with flowers, as it was his birthday, to which he consented, professing to be highly pleased with the intended honour.

With what an air of mock solemnity he marched to the seat in the new arbour, and bravely persisted in taking his place there, though in great doubt as to whether it would bear his weight; and the doubt became certainty, for at the very moment when Kate, as the youngest of the party, was placing on his white locks the crown of many-hued roses, it gave way beneath him, and down he went upon the ground, amid the laughter of the whole of his merry guests!

He was not hurt in the least, or there would have been no laughing. He had not far to fall, and there was the soft daisy-sprinkled turf below him; so he kept his station upon it, saying that he was quite borne down by the weight of his new dignity; but that he could now endure any amount that might be imposed upon him without shrinking. Then he said that his throne could not be taken from under him; and the children laughed at his old-fashioned jokes, and thought him the best playmate in the world.

Uncle Paul was equally great at Blind Man's Buff; Hunt the Slipper, and all the merry games that children have played at, one generation after another, for ages past. Truly, this birthday-party was the very gem of the midsummer fêtes at Hay-Lodge.

There was just one little drawback during the evening: it was when Uncle Paul found Kate sobbing, with her face buried in the sofa-cushions. The cause of her grief was soon explained. A rather spoiled child, who was one of the party, had been laughing at Kate's book-marker, and saying she would not have had it if she had been Uncle Paul, and she wondered the little girl had not offered him something better than that.

Then mamma put things right again, by telling a story herself; and all the children left off their play to listen to it, though Uncle Paul said it was "not fair" of Mrs. Ingram to take his calling from him in that manner. Still, as it was his birthday, and an especial occasion, and as he should not like to begin another year of his life by being angry, he thought he must allow her to have her own way. But, before she began, he made her promise that she would be tale-teller for this "one night only."

Mamma's was only a very short tale, called—

"MAGGIE'S DAISIES, OR THE VALUE OF A GIFT."

"One very bright summer morning, a group of children were on their way to school; nearly all of them had flowers in their hands—pretty bright blossoms, just freshly gathered from their gardens, and still moist with dew. The teacher of these children—a kind and gentle lady, who dearly loved her young charges—was very fond of flowers, but she had no garden of her own; so her pupils made it their care to supply her with flowers, and as they each brought one or two every morning, she always had sufficient to fill her vases, and keep the glass-dish on the table replenished also.

"Often, very often, the good lady used to thank the children for the floral-offerings, and tell them that she was more fortunate than she would be with a garden of her own, because their contributions made her feel that she had a great many; and, oh! such a host of gardeners. And kind little faces lighted up with pleasure at her words, and the youngsters vied with each other in bringing her the best of their flowers, to gladden her eyes with their beauty. Very often, only a single rose-bud would be brought, or it might be a pansy; but little or much, small or great, the teacher received all with gladness, because she looked upon them as the tribute of loving hearts.

"But there was one child in the school who had no garden, and she lived rather a long way from the fields. She would have liked to do as the others did, and often felt sorry to think that she alone, out of all that number, never had it in her power to take a single bud to her teacher, though she knew that none of them loved the kind lady better than she did. Many a time did she ponder over the matter, and at last, a bright thought struck her.

"'It is true,' said she to herself, 'that I have no garden to grow lilies or roses, but I "can" get some flowers, and I will.'

"The next morning she rose an hour earlier than usual, and away she went with rapid steps to the fields, thinking to get several kinds of wildflowers from the meadows which were yet uncut; but how great was her disappointment to hear the sound of the mower sharpening his scythe, and to find that nearly all the wildflowers were laid low. She was obliged to content herself with a handful of daisies and butter-cups from the next pasture, and with these she hastened home.

"When school-time came, she joined several of her companions who were on their way thither. They were surprised when they saw Maggie's nosegay, and began to laugh, and ask her what she was going to do with the daisies and butter-cups.

"Maggie was rather dismayed at finding herself and her flowers objects of ridicule to her school-fellows, and at first, she felt rather inclined to throw them away.

"'But no,' thought she, 'I will not. I will offer them to my teacher, for, though they are common, they are still very beautiful, and they are from one of what mother calls God's own gardens.'

"So she carried the field-flowers to school, and, to the surprise of all the rest of the pupils, a portion of Maggie's daisies and butter-cups were placed in a very conspicuous position in the centre vase, while the remainder, tied into a little bunch, were stuck into their teacher's belt, and remained there all the day.

"For many days Maggie rose early, in order to gather her simple nosegay, and she always had the pleasure of seeing it received with as much apparent satisfaction as ever. On the morning of her teacher's birthday, she went a much longer way than usual, and obtained quite a variety of field-flowers. There were pink and white campions from amongst the growing corn, wood-bine and meadow-sweet from the hedge-sides; there were wild geraniums and the scarlet pimpernel, with the old-fashioned daisies and butter-cups that never failed, together with some beautiful wild orchises, of which Maggie tried in vain to find two marked quite alike. She had great taste in the arrangement of flowers, and when she had put them together, her nosegay really looked a handsome and worthy present.

"On that day, several of the pupils brought very beautiful flowers, some of which were from hothouse plants. Two of these nosegays attracted Maggie's warmest admiration; and she sighed to think how poor and insignificant the flowers which she had collected with such care and pains looked in comparison with the magnificent scarlet cactus and snowy arums, the geraniums, heaths, delicate fuchsias, and others of which she did not know the names.

"'I don't think there will be room in the vase for your flowers this morning, Maggie,' said one of the girls, proud of her own splendid collection.

"'Perhaps not,' replied Maggie; 'but they are the best I have, and I walked a long way to gather them.'

"Yet she thought that, even if her flowers were denied a place, she could scarcely wonder, for the others were so very lovely.

"But a place 'was' found for them in spite of all; and beside the arums and the cactus, the dainty heaths and pendant fuchsias, Maggie's humbler tribute was arranged with no less care than usual by the same hand. The children were surprised at this; and some amongst them ventured to ask whether the teacher liked daisies so well as heaths and geraniums.

"'I like and value much,' she replied, 'the love which has prompted dear Maggie to take so much pains in collecting these wild-flowers-more than even the beautiful flowers themselves. Do you know, children, how much this daily nosegay has cost your companion?'

"They had never thought of that, or of anything save that the flowers were common, and might be picked up in every field and by every hedge and ditch-side.

"Then the teacher told them to think how far Maggie must have walked, and how early she must have risen every morning to gather the daisies without anything else at all. But for such a collection as she had just presented, she must have travelled a couple of miles.

"'Ought I, then, to value Maggie's nosegay lightly?' asked she, turning to her pupils.

"'No, indeed!' cried all the children together. 'Maggie's nosegay is the best, and has really cost the most; for while we had only to go into our gardens, or to ask for a bunch of flowers, she has had to rise early, and walk far, to get them for you.'

"Then the teacher took the trouble to point out the various parts of the daisy: its white petals, with a blush on their edges—its dark-green cup, and its yellow centre, composed of scores of little flowers, each perfect in itself. And she repeated the charming lines which Burns wrote about the daisy, so as to shew them that this little common flower had inspired a great poet with a noble song.

"For the first time in their lives, the children were led to think that the value of a gift consists, not in the gift itself, but in the spirit which animates the giver; and they never afterwards grudged the best place in the vase to Maggie's daisies."

Mamma's story had the best effect on Uncle Paul's young guests; and little Kate dried her tears when he told her that he considered the book-marker and note as something like Maggie's flowers—deserving of a first-rate place in his treasure-house, because he knew they had cost her a great deal of labour.

So Kate was comforted, everybody restored to good-humour, and the game at Blind Man's Buff recommenced with greater vigour than before; for the dew was on the grass, and the children were therefore obliged to play in the house only.

What a romp there was, and what a scramble to catch Uncle Paul, who seemed to be everywhere at once! It mattered not that the weather was so warm, or that the children themselves grew so very hot during their game. Ah! Who does not remember the time when very red faces, hair disarranged, and even torn frocks were thought of very little consequence in comparison with a good bit of fun?

There was quite a nice supper at nine o'clock—light, cooling, and refreshing, but not calculated to place any of the youngsters under the doctor's care on the morrow.

After supper followed another game, and then all the children sat quietly down to cool themselves a little before going home, lest they should take cold by venturing in such a heated state into the night-air. While they were all sitting, several of the children sang little simple airs very sweetly, though without a piano, for in furnishing his old bachelor's home, Uncle Paul had unfortunately omitted to provide one for his lady-visitors, though he had promised to supply the deficiency soon.

Then all the children went round the dear old man, just like a swarm of bees, and said it was his turn to sing. They pulled him this way and that, and said, "Do!" and, "It is your turn!" and, "Please!" and, "You must!" until he clapped his hands over his ears, and would have fairly run away, only they held him so fast there was not the least chance of his making his escape.

Mrs. Ingram was almost alarmed for his safety, but when she saw his laughing-face, she guessed that Uncle Paul was quite as much delighted as the children were themselves, and was prolonging the scene for his own amusement.

In answer to all their cries, he declared that he could not sing; that if he were to begin, he should frighten them all away, or else they would all join in begging him to cease that very moment.

But they remembered Uncle Paul's talents as a tale-teller, though nobody could state that he had ever been heard to sing; so, finally, a compromise was effected, and Uncle Paul agreed to tell one more tale before the young people separated, on condition that he should not be asked to sing on any pretence whatever. This was, as the newspapers say, "carried unanimously," and gave the greatest possible satisfaction.

"And what kind of a story should you like, children?" asked Uncle Paul, as he seated himself with little Kate on her old perch—his knee.

There were no two opinions evidently, for the answer followed the question as quickly as the words could be uttered. "A fairy story—a fairy story!" cried all the children.

So Uncle Paul said: "I think I have just one of that sort left, and it will be my last tale until the Christmas-holidays come. It is called—"

"LITTLE FLORELLA, OR THE WISHING-TEMPLE."

"It would be hard to say how much little Florella's mother loved her. Only a tender mother could tell what were her feelings towards her child, and then it would need the heart of such another mother to understand her meaning. Not that Florella deserved all this love: the child was often wayward and disobedient, and apt to think that she knew better than the tender parent whose whole heart was bound up in making her little daughter happy, and who thought no trouble too great to take for her sake. But Florella's mother knew that it is not by having every wish and whim indulged that a child is made happy, but by being taught to practise what is good and right; therefore, in her very care and love for her child, she was often obliged to contradict her, and refuse to grant her many things for which Florella longed, but which would have done her harm if they had been granted. Thus, while surrounded with everything that true love could furnish her with, Florella was not contented.

"'Oh,' thought she to herself, 'if I could have whatever I wish for, and not be crossed in this way continually, how delightful it would be! I have a great mind to steal away from home, and never come back to it again. No one would then have a right to order me to do this or that, or to refuse me what I have set my mind upon. If I could only reach the Wishing-Temple that I have heard people talk about so often!'

"This thought was continually in Florella's mind, and it made her more and more dissatisfied with everything that was done for her, till her mother was nearly heart-broken at seeing the discontented disposition of her child.

"Florella's grand aim was to find out the way to the Wishing-Temple, for she knew that if she could but get there, whatever she might wish would be granted, no matter how distant the object might be, or how difficult to attain. But it was a fairy temple, and a long, long way off; and she was afraid to ask the way, because she thought that if she did, some person would tell her mother when she stole away from home, and they would know where to seek her. Florella never considered the trouble her absence would cause her mother, or the uneasiness she would feel; she only thought how delightful it would be to have everything the moment she wished for it. So she saved a little of her food every day for a week that she might not be hungry on the road, and then set off on her journey to find the Wishing-Temple. She chose her time when her mother was from home, and not likely to return for some hours, and very fast she ran that she might get a long way on the road before her absence should be noticed.

"All the day long Florella went onwards, not in the least knowing whether she was approaching the place of which she was in search, or going further from it. Over fields she ran, through hedges she crept, and when she was thirsty, she drank a little water to refresh her, and ate a little of her hoarded provisions; but rest she never took until the sun had sunk out of sight, and the gray evening began to close around her. Then, for the first time, Floras missed her mother, and was inclined to be sorry she had left her home to take such an uncertain journey as this. However, she got over this difficulty: it was the summer-time, and there was plenty of hay in the fields. Better still, she found in one a shed which had been used as a shelter for the cattle, but was without a tenant during the warm weather, and into it she carried plenty of hay. This made her a soft bed, and, weary with her long walk, she threw herself upon it, and slept as soundly as though she had been on cushions of down, or in her own pretty chamber.

"The next morning, she started again upon her journey; and for three days she wandered on, hiding herself as much as possible from every person, for fear of meeting with some one who might take her back before she had gained the object for which she left home. When the third night was coming on, Florella was inclined to wish that she 'had' met such a person; her feet were blistered and swollen, her clothes torn with the briers, and her face was so browned with the hot sun that, when she bent over the water, and saw it reflected as if in a looking-glass, she scarcely knew it to be her image that she saw in the stream. Beside, Florella was suffering from hunger; her provisions were all eaten, and she had no kind mother to give her more. She had tasted nothing since the morning, and there were no signs of water in her immediate neighbourhood either, for the stream in which she saw her likeness hours before was now a long way off.

"All around her, she could distinguish nothing but bare sands, dry and hot beneath her blistered feet. No hay to form a bed, no kindly shed was near to afford a shelter, and, with a sigh, she thought of her pretty chamber, with the wood-bine and jessamine climbing round its window, and everything about it telling of peace and comfort, and, better still, of a mother's earnest love.

"Still, Florella had an idea that she was not far from the Wishing-Temple, for she had been told that, in order to deter people from going thither, the fairies had made the country around it barren and ugly, while the temple itself was very difficult to find, because hidden in a forest. All at once, when Florella was quite tired, and ready to faint with hunger, she came to the end of the sandy plain, and found herself on the border of a thick dark wood. Though it was summer-time, the wood looked very gloomy; and with the shades of evening resting upon it, it was no very pleasant place to enter, especially for a child. But Florella thought of all the weary miles which lay between her and home, and of the purpose with which she had travelled so far; therefore, after hesitating for a while, she at length mustered courage to go a few steps into the wood.

"In a moment, she was nearly deafened by the cawing of an enormous number of rooks, which all joined in chorus, as if for the purpose of frightening her away again, while the flapping of thousands of wings around and above her almost bewildered the child. She turned, with the intention of going back, and, lo! instead of one path, she saw a hundred, and knew not which to choose. Then great owls began to take the place of the rooks, and these last went up into their nests on the tall trees to roost, as it grew darker.

"Down on the trunk of a tree sat Florella, to consider what she should do. She was not easily daunted.

"'After all,' said she to herself, 'the rooks will not hurt me; I have seen plenty such birds at home, and they are gone to roost now; I daresay it was my coming that startled them, poor things.'

"The owls she did not like so well. But even of these she had heard her mother speak often enough, and had seen pictures of them in books.

"'They are only birds,' said she, by way of persuading herself into feeling comfortable; but she did not succeed very well in the attempt.

"The worst difficulty Florella still had to struggle with was hunger. Her last meal had been only a piece of bread—very dry, with being carried so long in her pocket—and a draught of water from the brook. There was nothing eatable within sight; no root, or so much as a wild-strawberry to cool her parched tongue, and she began to be filled with dread, less on account of visible than imaginary dangers. She had heard of the venomous snakes that lurk in the long grass, of savage beasts that hide in the deep wood, and of fierce robbers that slay passing travellers. Poor, little, foolish Florella! Who had so many comforts, such kind hands to tend her, and yet could not be contented. She needed not to fear the robbers, because she had nothing save the poor ragged clothes which hung about her, and which no robber would have thought worth the taking; but that fact had quite escaped her mind. So, afraid to proceed on her way in the dim twilight, and not knowing how to retrace her steps, she remained trembling and miserable on the mossy trunk where she had first seated herself, quite unable to move.

"She had not been long there before fatigue proved stronger than either fear or hunger, and she sank back in a sound sleep, and never awoke again until the rays of the morning sun, shining upon her face, roused her to a sense of her position. If she were hungry the night before, how much more so was she now, with the fresh air of morning blowing around her and sharpening her appetite, and that fatigue, which had made her less conscious of it, all removed by her long sleep. When she rose to pursue her way, her limbs felt stiff, her feet sore, and she trembled with weakness, consequent on want of food. She really would have turned back, instead of going forward, but the impossibility of choosing out of the many paths which lay behind, and the thought of the bare sandy plain which must be recrossed—if she could find it—before she could reach the habitations of men, decided her. She wandered on, therefore, but slowly, and in about an hour she came to the end of the wood. But along its borders stood a row of fairy forms clothed in green, and with crowns of scarlet flowers on their heads. These fairies stood with linked hands, and barred her further progress.

"Florella begged them to let her pass, but they made a sign that she must apply to their leader, a stately-looking fairy, who sat on a silver throne, raised on a little mound of turf, covered with flowers, and wore a crown of white roses.

"'Please to let me pass,' said Florella. 'I am seeking the Wishing-Temple; and I have wandered a long, long way alone.'

"She looked a miserable little figure in her torn garments, and with her uncombed hair streaming down her shoulders, and tears down her cheeks.

"'People must endure much who find the Wishing-Temple,' answered the fairy. 'Have you borne fatigue? No one can obtain all he wishes without that.'

"Florella shewed her swollen feet, and said: 'I am so stiff with walking for three days that I can scarcely move at all.'

"'Then you have fulfilled the first part of the compact,' said the stately fairy; 'you may pass on.' She waved her silver wand, and the green-robed fairies parted, and allowed Florella to pass on her way unharmed.

"First, she crossed a pleasant field, and then she came to another plain of sand and a wood something like the former; but the paths were fewer, and did not wind so much, and she found a few wild-strawberries, and some roots which were good for food. These refreshed her a little, though she was still very faint; but, owing to her blistered feet, she was obliged to spend the night in the second wood.

"In the morning, she gathered roots and strawberries for breakfast, and passed on until, on emerging from the trees, she found another band of fairies, dressed in white robes, adorned with silver. Like the former ones, their hands were clasped, and Florella was again referred to a stately fairy sitting on a golden throne, and with a crown of gold and topazes upon her head.

"Florella lifted her hands in supplication, and begged to be allowed to pass this barrier also, because she had wandered a long way in search of the Wishing-Temple, and had endured much fatigue and hunger on the road thither.

"'Have you indeed borne hunger?' asked the stately fairy. 'Those who seek to obtain all they wish for, must yet needs leave many an unsatisfied desire on the road thither.'

"'Alas! I have indeed,' said Florella. And she shewed the fairy how she had become thin and wan for want of sufficient food, and how her clothes hung about her as though they had been made for a far plumper person than herself.

"'Poor little mortal,' said the fairy kindly, 'I pity you, though I blame you also! It would have been far wiser to stay contentedly at home, than to endure all these privations. And you know not for what. Would it not be better to return, than to continue your journey towards the Wishing-Temple?'

"'No, no,' said Florella eagerly; 'I should die on the way. I am far too little and weak to bear the same fatigue again. Please, good fairy, to let me pass on!'

"'But if I will feed and clothe you, and send you home in a chariot, which shall be carried through the air by my attendants here, will not that induce you?'

"Little Florella thought the fairy only wanted to prevent her from approaching the Wishing-Temple; it is so hard to believe that people really mean to do us a kindness when they oppose our inclinations, yet very often those who do oppose them are our truest friends. The stately fairy in the golden crown did desire to befriend Florella by keeping her from the Wishing-Temple, but the child could not see this, and still pleaded, as before:

"'I am so tired and hungry!—Do let me pass on.'

"The fairy sighed as she answered: 'We may not detain you here, if you are quite resolved on continuing your journey. People may be advised and invited to take the right and wise path, but it is out of our power to force them. Pass on, little mortal—pass on!'

"She waved her golden wand, and all the linked fairy-hands were loosed, the barrier broken, and little Florella once more pursued her way. Again the sandy plain to cross, but there were beautiful shining stones sprinkled over it. Florella did not know how precious they were, and though they looked pretty to her childish eyes, she wished them away, because they cut her feet, and made walking more and more painful at every step; beside, she was too tired to stoop to pick them up. Her whole thoughts were bent on reaching the Wishing-Temple; and with this one object before her, she actually passed on the road thither many of the very objects she had so often longed to obtain.

"Another night in the wood, with the same scanty food as before, and once more Florella pursued her way in the morning to its borders. A beautiful scene broke upon her view when she left the tall trees behind. This last wood formed a circular fence round a vast garden, in the centre of which stood the Wishing-Temple. She traversed the winding-walks unchecked, though, surrounded as she was with everything that was lovely to the eye, she, poor, little, miserable-looking vagrant, seemed strangely out of place amongst so much beauty. The walks were fairly strewn with flowers; trees laden with fruits, such as Florella had never before seen, grew on every side; crystal fountains played at every turn, and their falling waters kept time with the songs of the birds, while marble figures of the finest proportions seemed to want only breathing upon to become alive, so lifelike were they.

"Florella stayed not to look, admire, or listen, but pressed onward till she came to a golden palisade, which formed the last barrier that divided her from the Wishing-Temple. At a magnificent gate studded with precious stones sat a fairy, clothed in a flowing robe of a soft blue, which spread around her, light as air. She wore no gems or ornaments except a wreath of blue forget-me-nots and white tea-roses round her head.

"The sight of this fairy filled Florella with wonder, it seemed so strange to see her simple robe in the midst of such wondrous splendour as was scattered on every side. She stopped and gazed around her, expecting to see a queenly figure, something like the stately fairies that guarded the woods through which she had passed on her way; but no other did she find, and she was about to pass through the gateway, when the blue-robed fairy placed a hazel-wand across her path. Slight as was the boundary, Florella was powerless to pass it, so she presented her last petition, and begged to be allowed to enter the Wishing-Temple.

"'Hast thou left friends behind, and given up human kindred?' inquired the fairy queen, for it 'was' the queen, though she was so plainly clad.

"'That I have,' said Florella. 'I fled from home and friends. I left my companions to pursue their plays, and my mother to weep and lament my loss. I have suffered hunger, pain, and weariness, all to gain entrance to the Wishing-Temple; and now I have reached it, I wait only for your leave to pass within its gates.'

"'And you have despised the opinions of men, I see,' said the fairy queen with a pitying smile, as she surveyed poor Florella's miserable rags, the sole remains of the neat clothes which a mother's hands once fashioned with care for her child.

"'I have despised all,' said Florella, 'and endured, oh, so much! Please to let me enter the Wishing-Temple.'

"'You have been very unwise, little child of earth,' said the queen of the fairies. 'Look on me, and you will be convinced of this. I could be clothed in gold, and adorned with the most costly gems; I have but to wish, and all I desire is mine; yet, believe me, the very power I have makes me care little to use it, and I prefer simple clothes and simple food to any other. Go back, little child of earth—go back, if you are wise! You will be very miserable, indeed, when you have no wish ungratified.'

"Florella shook her head, and cried: 'Let me enter, lady; I have come far and suffered much—send me not away from the very threshold!'

"'Little child,' said the fairy, 'should you like to feed on honey always, and taste no other food?'

"'No—oh, no!' answered Florella. 'That would be very unpleasant; I should not like it at all.'

"'Then believe me when I tell you that to have all sweets and no crosses, all favours and no refusals, will be as cloying to the mind as it would be to the taste to eat honey always.'

"Florella hesitated. There appeared to be truth and reason in the fairy's words, and it 'might' be better, after even all these labours and pains, not to enter the Wishing-Temple.

"The fairy saw the child's wavering look, and said: 'Be not afraid of the rough road, the sandy plains, or the dark forests. You shall be conveyed home with all tenderness, and shall bear with you tokens of my goodwill also, which would make amends for the past; so, answer, little child of earth. Make your choice.'

"The old thought entered Florella's mind—'She does not wish me to enter the temple, for fear of my gaining the same power as herself. What does she care for me?' Her purpose was confirmed, and she replied: 'I have decided—I wish to enter the temple.'

"'I may not prevent you, then,' said the fairy queen, raising the hazel-wand. 'I have done my duty in advising you for the best; but mortals cannot be forced into the right path. You have chosen for yourself. Take what you will.'

"Then the queen spread her gossamer-wings, and flew down from the gateway into the garden, leaving Florella to enter the temple alone. What a beautiful place it was on the outside! It stood on a base of rock-crystal, out of which, a solid mass, steps were cut, guarded on each side by a golden balustrade corresponding with the railing below. The temple itself was formed of the same beautiful material, so cut as to divide the sun's rays, and make it appear of all the hues of the rainbow. Over the door was an inscription, not, as Florella expected, an invitation to enter, but words which confirmed the advice she had received from the fairies—

"'Pause, foolish mortal— Pause, ere you find That power without limit Is not for mankind!'

"Florella read it, but did not pause. Was it likely that she who had despised the former advice would be turned back now? She crossed the threshold, and found herself in total darkness! This was a great surprise. The outside was so brilliant, she could scarcely realise the change. Several times she tried to speak, but she was afraid to break the dead silence that reigned around. Then a voice addressed her, and in stern tones said:

"'Little child of earth, you have but to speak, and whatever you wish shall be granted; yet you would have been wiser to stay outside the temple, which is in itself an emblem of many a wish fulfilled—very fair in the distance, but giving no real joy in the possession; for—

"'Know that our wishes All die when they're won, Melt like the snow-flakes Beneath the hot sun!'

"Florella mustered courage, and answered: 'I wish that every future desire of mine may be fulfilled.'

"'Granted! You have only to wish and to have whatever fairies can give. Farewell!'

"The voice ceased, and Florella left the Wishing-Temple. In those few words she had exhausted all the benefits it could confer, and she longed to test her new powers. With rapid feet she stepped into the fair garden below, and her first wish was for food. She named all the dainties she could think of, especially such as she had been denied, and in an instant they were by her side. Then she wished for new clothes, and directly her rags were replaced by the finery she craved. Next, she desired that the brownness of her skin might disappear, her hair fall in soft tresses, her stiff limbs regain their activity, and her blistered feet be healed.

"And all these things were done. She cast a glance into the crystal fountain near which she sat, and saw with much satisfaction the change in her appearance. She ate very heartily of the dainties she had wished for, thinking with no small pleasure that there was no one who could control her in anything now. Afterwards, feeling very uncomfortable, because her hearty meal had disagreed with her, following, as it did, such scanty fare, she forgot her new power, and wished she had not eaten a bit; and the wish was scarcely uttered, before she was as hungry as ever again, and had to desire more food to satisfy her appetite.

"Florella felt very much inclined to wish herself at home that she might display her powers; but somehow she was ashamed to meet the mother she had grieved. At last, after having desired and cast aside everything she could think of, she began to find the truth of the fairy adage—

"'Power without limit Is not for mankind.'

"Instead of being happier in the possession of almost unlimited power, she found that all the precious things in the world could not make up for what she had left behind. When unrestrained indulgence made her ill, the fairies could not cure her sickness; and though surrounded with grandeur, she could not have a mother's kind hands to tend her for the asking. When she went to the Wishing-Temple, after vainly desiring for her mother's presence, she was told that she had left that behind when she entered the domains of the fairies.

"So Florella discovered that she had lost a great deal. Often, too, it had been very delightful to hope for some little indulgence, which was all the sweeter when gained if she had worked for it; but now she knew not the pleasure of hoping, because she was sure of having all she could imagine beforehand. She knew neither fear nor trust for the same reason; and having no contradictions to endure, her mind was indeed cloyed with indulgence, as the taste would be if fed only on honey.

"After a time, she grew very tired of having all her own way, and went to the Wishing-Temple with the determination to get rid of her power if possible. The stern voice spoke, and asked why she came.

"'I come,' said Florella trembling, and in tears, 'to beg that you will restore me to my best friend—my mother. I will be contented with the ordinary lot of mortals, learn wisdom by degrees, and submit to those who know how to guide me. I will not desire more than my share of the sweets of life, but shall enjoy those that are given me by contrasting them with the bitters. I will enjoy rest by earning the right to it. Oh, take from me the power I craved, and give me back to my mother! I may return to her, though she cannot come hither to me.'

"Thus the last of those wishes, which Florella was sure of obtaining, was granted. In a moment, she found herself at the door of her old home. She hardly knew how to enter; but at that moment the door was opened, and a figure dressed in deep mourning issued from the house. Could that be her mother? Alas! It was; but her eyes were dim with weeping, and her once dark hair was now nearly white.

"Florella knew who had done that, and she was ready to steal away, overcome with remorse.

"But her mother saw her, and springing forward, exclaimed: 'My child is found!' While her hot but glad tears fell on Florella's face.

"And all was forgiven, though Florella never forgot her visit to the Wishing-Temple."

"I am not going to tell you any more, children," said Uncle Paul. "I only meant to shew you that it is better to deserve what we have, than to sigh for more; better to labour for good things in moderation, than to possess all we wish for. There is nothing in the way of food that tires us so soon as sweets, and, in like manner, we should find that to have all our own way, would bring us more pain than enjoyment. So do you, dear young folk, be thankful that you have parents to guide and control you, and don't begin to wish that you could find your way to the Wishing-Temple of the fairies."

And now it was time for the young guests to say good-night. Dear Uncle Paul was almost overwhelmed with kisses by all the children, who were full of regret at the thought of parting with the little Ingrams.

"Never mind," said Uncle Paul. "You know the old proverb that the best of friends must part. Let us hope that all you youngsters will retain such a pleasant remembrance of Hay-Lodge that you may look forward with hope, as I shall, to another meeting, if Uncle Paul should be spared to see another birthday."

The youngsters all thanked him, and said in hearty chorus that they hoped he would live to see a great many more happy years; and then they went to their homes full of kindly thoughts both of Uncle Paul and his relatives, and of regrets that the happy midsummer-holidays were over for that year.

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CONCLUSION.

BERNARD'S RETURN TO SCHOOL.

THERE was to be one day's rest after the party, and then Bernard was to go back to school. The boy was not unwilling to be at work again, but still he had a natural feeling of sadness hanging around him at the thought of leaving his good mother, Marian, and little pet Kate, and—though last, not lightly valued—dear Uncle Paul. His uncle saw the boy's regret in his face, and spoke in his usually cheery tone.

"Christmas will soon be here, Bernard, and time flies all the more quickly when we are fully employed, and have no leisure to indulge in useless wishes. If we had holidays all the year round, it would be as bad for us as feeding wholly on honey, or visiting the Wishing-Temple. You would have had little enjoyment during the vacation, if you had not first earned it by hard work."

"I do not feel sorry to go back to school, uncle," replied Bernard; "indeed, I am glad of the opportunity to do so. I am only sorry to say good-bye. And my dear mother and the girls will miss me all the more, too, from having had such a delightful time at Hay-Lodge. Our city-home is not like this place, though we have spent many happy days there."

"And have you not a thought for Uncle Paul's loneliness, Bernard? How will he feel when you are all gone?"

"Yes, indeed, Uncle Paul. But I hardly thought we could be of so much consequence to you as you are to us."

The boy's voice trembled, and Uncle Paul seemed to be troubled with a huskiness in his throat, for he did not speak very clearly for a minute or so.

"Then," he said, "I think I must keep Kate here. Will you stay with Uncle Paul, to bear him company, little one?"

"I should wish very much, but mamma will not like to part with me," said the child.

Uncle Paul looked quite disconsolate, but after a little while, a bright idea struck Kate. "Uncle," she said, "we will take you home with us, and you shall stay always." She clapped her hands in glee; but Uncle Paul thought perhaps it would be better to reverse matters.

"Supposing, mamma," he said, "that you, Marian, and Kate stay here instead. Bernard can go to school, and we will have a governess to help you to teach these girls. What say you? Can you love Uncle Paul well enough to stay and cheer his loneliness? Hay-Lodge is large enough, and more, Uncle Paul's heart is large enough too, to hold you all, and still keep a corner for Bernard when he comes home at Christmas."

The widowed mother felt all the goodness which prompted Uncle Paul's offer, and, unable to speak, she took the good old man's hand in both hers, and pressed it to her lips, while Kate clambered on his knee again, and fairly shouted with delight: "Dear, darling uncle, I am so glad I shall stay with you!"

Bernard went to school the next day in high spirits at the thought of leaving his mother and sisters so pleasantly situated. He had quite forgot what he had given up for the sake of buying a birthday-gift for Uncle Paul; but he was reminded of it by finding, after he reached school, a set of articles of the very best kind, and such as he had long wished for, in a snug corner of his trunk. He had no difficulty in guessing to whom he owed them.

As to Kate, she is every day twining herself more and more closely round Uncle Paul's heart, and so indeed are mamma and Marian. And Bernard is working very hard at school. He remembers what Uncle Paul said that he would not have enjoyed his rest so much if he had not first earned it by his steady industry.

So having done with Midsummer for the present, let us leave the children to their pleasant memories, and looking forward next to spending "Christmas at Hay-Lodge."

THE END.