er that; she
knew all now. Kissing her darling, patting her head, and murmuring
over her sweet pet names, as though Mary were still the baby girl she
had lost, she sat for a few bewildered, rapturous moments, then sank
back in a swoon. She lay with such a smile on her lips that those
about her were little alarmed. She had only fainted under her burden
of happiness. She afterwards said that this swoon was like a trance of
heavenly joy. She revived with a sigh, thinking it all a dream,--but
we know it was n't.

I don't know that I have anything more to tell you, except that Mrs.
Phillips got well very rapidly, and did n't have to go South with the
birds that year. Joy and Love are very good physicians, though they
practice without a diploma, in defiance of medical professors and all
the college of surgeons.

Yes, one other thing. There was a great Christmas gathering at the
Phillips mansion that year. The Raeburns and Mortons were there, with
a host of Mary's uncles, aunts, and cousins, and actually two pairs of
grandparents. Only think how rich she was!

On Christmas-eve there was dancing and charade-acting, there were games
and _tableaux_ in the great hall; and last and best of all, there was
story-telling around the fragrant wood-fire in the library.

Of all the stories told that night, there was none to compare,
everybody said, with the one related by pretty Bessie Raeburn, of a
certain Christmas adventure of hers, and of what came of it.

A CHARADE

I love my _first_ on a summer eve,
Or a breezy autumn morning;
My soul bounds with it, and my heart
Laughs out, all trouble scorning.

I love it by the wild sea-beach,
When fades the sunset splendor,
And the new moon, like a fairy boat,
Sails through the sky-deeps tender.

My _second_ brings up visions sad
Of life's most fearful duty,--
Of green mounds hiding from our sight
Dear forms of youth and beauty.

My _third_, if speaking slowly, clouds
The brightest day with sadness;
If quickly, thrills the air, and wakes
The gloomiest morn to gladness.

It calls, and through the churchyard gate
A funeral is creeping;
It calls, and down the old church aisle
A bridal train is sweeping!

My _whole_ grew in a garden old,
Round which my heart still lingers;
Its azure petals formed a cup
Fit for a fairy's fingers.

_Canterbury-bell_

THE END.