sprawling over other flowers, grinning faces poised in the air so delicately, that every breeze sets them in motion; festoons hanging from tree to tree, like crowns for the coronation of the forest kings, and covering their rough trunks with dazzling chains of every imaginable hue. • So do they beautify the wilderness and make the solitary place sing for joy.' Denizens of the air, where do they come from?" "Where indeed," repeated Dora musingly; "I could almost fancy that they were fallen from unknown worlds on high, for they must seem of a different nature to the vegetable life of our earth." "Humboldt," replied Miss Vaughan, " supposes that plants do exist in the higher regions of the atmosphere, and that floating upon its undulations hither and thither, they are made visible to us by meteorology. However that may be, it is generally admitted that plants give colour to snow. Crimson snow, and blue and yellow and green snow, have been met with by travellers; and red and black hail. Red snow is often visible in Switzerland, and Humboldt found some in America 6,000 feet above the level of the sea, which he says was evidently coloured by plants. Black rain I have seen myself in Ireland, and it left a number of inky spots upon the door-steps, which many succeeding showers of pure water failed to wash out. water failed to wash out. But the cause of this phenomenon is, I believe, very doubtful. But we must resume this interesting subject another day, for I see your kind mamma coming down the avenue to meet us.” CHAPTER XVII. WHEN Friendship, Love, and Truth abound The cup of joy goes gaily round; Each shares the bliss of others. The flowers that shed their leaves to-day How grand in age, how fair in youth, MONTGOMERY. A FEW weeks before Christmas, the happy school-room party broke up for the yearly holiday. Strange to say, there was almost as much of regret as of joy displayed on this occasion. It was not that they did not as thoroughly enjoy as any other children the pleasures natural to their age; but this enjoyment now involved a separation from the kind friend with whom they had become so accustomed to share all their pleasures, that it seemed as if something would be wanting when she was not among them as usual. Miss Vaughan had already made herself very dear to them all, and to Dora especially. Fanny's little arms stole many times round her neck the day before they parted, and she was many times on the point of making a petition to her to stay at Ash Grove during the holidays, instead of going away. But Dora had told her it would be very selfish even to wish such a thing, because Miss Vaughan had dear parents just as she had, and brothers and sisters also, from whom she had been parted a great while, and whom she longed to go and see. So Fanny smothered her wish in kisses, instead of speaking it. Yet she could not taste her breakfast on the first morning of the holidays, nor yet repress a few tears when she watched the carriage drive off which was to convey Miss Vaughan to the station. But a whole family of cousins had been invited to Ash Grove, to make Christmas pass merrily, and their arrival soon banished all other considerations. At the expiration of six weeks, Miss Vaughan returned to them. She was most joyfully received; and her cheerful spirits showed that she felt herself no longer a stranger among strangers, but an established member of a happy united family. But there was something in Dora's eager welcome different to the rest; something in her look and manner which Miss Vaughan's observing eye did not fail to perceive, and which gave her an uneasy feeling. It was the old look; she knew it well. Tired with her journey, she had retired early to her room, and was sitting there thinking about Dora, when a tap at the door startled her, and Dora's voice asked permission to come in. "I knew you were not going to bed just yet, dear Miss Vaughan; and I did so long for a little quiet chat. It is a long time since I have enjoyed one. 0 you cannot think how I have wished these stupid holidays to be over, and what a great comfort it is to have you back again." There And Dora drew a stool to the fire and sat down. were tears in her dark eyes as she looked up as if wishing to say something more, but not knowing how to begin. Miss Vaughan looked at her earnestly and sadly. She guessed too well what had made the holidays appear so long, and what had brought back the dissatisfied expression to Dora's naturally open and ingenuous face. Dora was not understood in her own family: characters like her's seldom are. They saw her irritable in temper and reserved in manner, and apparently liking to keep apart unamiably from the rest. But they did not know that an over-sensitiveness (that great misfortune to the possessor), was the secret cause of all that seemed strange and unlovely in her outward life. How this morbid tendency had been fostered by injudicious indulgence, has been already explained. Miss Vaughan knew well: her long experience and her earnest love for children had taught her to read their hearts; and thus she guessed, very nearly, all that Dora had to tell her now. "It is a very great pleasure to me, my love," she replied, "to feel that you are glad to have me with you again; but not at all so to hear that you have not enjoyed the holidays which promised so much pleasure. What can have been the reason of this?" Dora tried to answer, but tears choked her voice, and, covering her face with her hands, she burst into an uncontrollable fit of weeping. Miss Vaughan waited silently until she had had time to recover herself, and then gently and by degrees drew from her all that she longed, yet dreaded, to tell—the history of her trial and her disappointment-her dislike to the society of the young ladies who had been staying with them-various conversations which they had held together generally ending in worse than useless argument, in which Dora grew irritated and lost her self-command-her finally yielding to Mary the task of entertaining her cousins, and retiring to her own room to take refuge in study—her mamma's dissatisfaction at this, and desire that she should join in the general amusements—her unwilling compliance and bitter regrets over the wasted time-and then, what seemed to weigh more heavily on her heart than all, her vexation at perceiving all the while how Mary seemed to enjoy the society of those trifling girls, how much gayer and happier she seemed now than often when alone with her, how merry was her laugh, and how little she seemed to sympathise with the cause of her sister's unhappiness. "It was not jealousy," she added earnestly; "I only felt how lonely I was, and that I had no friend but you." Here Dora looked up, and saw such a look of sorrowful anxiety on the face that bent over her, that she stopped speaking. “Dora, my love, I cannot listen to the expression of such feelings as these. I wish, indeed, to be your true friend; and your affection is very dear to me, but remember, I can never be to you what your sisters must be. They are the friends of your life; and, as you value your happiness, you will never encourage a thought that may tend to dissolve the natural tie by which Providence has bound you to each other. And now let me point out to you how very wrongly and foolishly you have acted. Have you not brought all this discomfort upon yourself by consulting your own pleasure in the first place, disregarding the wishes and feelings of others? And in doing so you have lessened the happiness of those dear to you. You think not; but I am sure you have; I read it in your mamma's eye every time she looked at you this evening; you know how much she enjoys see |