ht eyes, and hear your merry voice;
but let us hear you sing and play."

Tears of delight glistened in the old man's eyes as she warbled
several simple airs to a graceful accompaniment. Mrs. Lee sighed
deeply, and would have given them a long lecture upon the vanities and
frivolities of the world, had not Clara changed the strain, and sung
some of her favorite hymns.

"Are you not tired?" asked her uncle, with his usual considerate
kindness. "Come, let us go to the garden, and see the dahlias I
planted, because I knew the other flowers would be killed by the frost
before you came home."

"With pleasure," answered Clara; "but first let me sing a song that I
have learned on purpose to please you."

Then she sung the beautiful words, "He doeth all things well." The old
man's eyes beamed with a holy light as he listened to the exquisite
music which expressed the sentiments that had pervaded his life. As
she rose from the piano, he laid his hands upon her head caressingly,
saying, "Blessed be His name, who guards my treasures in Heaven, and
has still left me this rich possession on earth." The old lady, melted
by the sight of his emotion, and the sentiment expressed, clasped her
to her heart, and called her her own dear child.

Months glided on with swift wings, and even Mrs. Lee was forced to
give up her arguments against a fashionable education. She had
predicted that Clara would be a fine lady, and feel above performing
the common duties of life; but every morning with the early dawn she
shared the tasks of her aunt, and seemed as much at home in the dairy
or kitchen as when seated at her piano. Her step was as light and
graceful while tripping over the fields as it had been in the dance,
and her fingers as skillful in making her own and her aunt's dresses,
as they had been at her embroidery. The good dame had learned to love
the piano, and more than once admitted that she would feel quite
lonely without it. So she was fain to retreat from her position, by
saying that her old opinions held good as general rules, though Clara
was an exception, for no one else was ever like her. At length her old
feelings revived when a young farmer in the neighborhood aspired to
the hand of Clara, and was kindly, though firmly, refused. She was
sure that it came of pride, and that the novels she had read had
filled her head with ideas of high life. But her good uncle came to
the rescue, and declared that her inclinations should not b