the child, looking at the winged cherub with sorrowful
envy.

"Don't, my darling; don't say that," cried Psyche, dropping her work
with a sudden pang at her heart. "I'm a sinful, selfish girl to keep
you here! you're weak for want of air; come out and see the chickens,
and pick dandelions, and have a good romp with the boys."

The weak arms were strong enough to clasp Psyche's neck, and the tired
face brightened beautifully as the child exclaimed, with grateful
delight,--

"Oh, I'd like it very much! I wanted to go dreadfully; but everybody
is so busy all the time. I don't want to play, Sy; but just to lie on
the grass with my head in your lap while you tell stories and draw me
pretty things as you used to."

The studio was deserted all that afternoon, for Psyche sat in the
orchard drawing squirrels on the wall, pert robins hopping by,
buttercups and mosses, elves and angels; while May lay contentedly
enjoying sun and air, sisterly care, and the "pretty things" she loved
so well. Psyche did not find the task a hard one; for this time her
heart was in it, and if she needed any reward she surely found it; for
the little face on her knee lost its weary look, and the peace and
beauty of nature soothed her own troubled spirit, cheered her heart,
and did her more good than hours of solitary study.

Finding, much to her own surprise, that her fancy was teeming with
lovely conceits, she did hope for a quiet evening. But mother wanted a
bit of gossip, father must have his papers read to him, the boys had
lessons and rips and grievances to be attended to, May's lullaby could
not be forgotten, and the maids had to be looked after, lest burly
"cousins" should be hidden in the boiler, or lucifer matches among
the shavings. So Psyche's day ended, leaving her very tired, rather
discouraged, and almost heart-sick with the shadow of a coming sorrow.

All summer she did her best, but accomplished very little, as she
thought; yet this was the teaching she most needed, and in time she
came to see it. In the autumn May died, whispering, with her arms
about her sister's neck,--

"You make me so happy, Sy, I wouldn't mind the pain if I could stay a
little longer. But if I can't, good-by, dear, good-by."

Her last look and word and kiss were all for Psyche, who felt then
with grateful tears that her summer had not been wasted; for the smile
upon the little dead face was more to her than any marble perfection
her hands could have car