the moment restored, vented itself in music. It was only a short period since she had been able to walk again, and generally the effort of taking a few steps. caused her pain. But she was conscious of neither weakness nor suffering as she darted about over the lawn, until the buttercups had showered her feet with yellow dust, and she bade Miss Amory look at the golden slippers the flowers had given her. At last she grew weary from the unwonted exercise, and lay down, with her head resting on Miss Lucy's lap, beneath the shade of a branching oak, catching glimpses of the sky through the windshaken foliage, and singing without pause, singing as the birds sing, from that gleefulness within which turns to melody. After they had passed several hours in this manner, the young Sunday-school teacher warned her companion that it was time to return; but Tina could not tear herself away from this newly-found elysium. She pleaded for a few moments more, and still a few moments more, until the trees began to cast long shadows, and the roseate light grew gray, and the perfumed air became slightly chilly. Then she was reluctantly conducted back to the carriage. Her exuberant spirits sustained her while the excitement lasted, but a reäction succeeded its removal. That night the fever returned with increased violence. No words of blame were uttered by Tina's parents; but Miss Amory could not forgive her own unconscious imprudence. Her attention, her devotions, were redoubled. She was now seldom absent from the child's couch; she literally spent her days at Robin Truehart's lodgings. In a few weeks the young sufferer rallied. Those beautiful gardens were forever a haunting memory stored up in her mind, but she did not aşk to see them again. She seemed to be aware that her joy had not been temperate; she had been intoxicated by the exhilarating air, the pastoral sights and sounds; she had revelled in them until the golden rule of moderation was forgotten. "I must not run any more risks, or ask for any more indulgences; I must get well and go to work again," she would often say. "How ill my poor mother looks! If I could only work, and let her rest!" The anxieties of the last few months had wrought an alarming change in Susan. Her cheeks were daily growing more hollow; her weary eyes were deeply sunken, and circled with dark rings; her form, always slight, was becoming emaciated. Robin's watchful eyes saw the sad transition, and there was a mysterious admonition in his heart, a foreboding of ill, which he could not stifle. He marked how wearily she went through her allotted duties; to what a faint key her voice had sunk; how uncertain her steps became. She never complained, and to his tender inquiries always answered that she was well, she did not suffer, she was very happy - was not her child recovering? She was so blessed in all things that she asked of her heavenly Father no added blessings; she only prayed to become worthier of receiving those she enjoyed. Robin gazed upon her earnestly. Her cheek was so very pale, her eyes so dim, her whole mien per vaded by such an air of languor, that he could not help saying, "Then you are not suffering or grieving, Sue? You would not hide it from me, if you were?" "Hide it? No, Robin, I have never concealed anything from you in my life!" And it was true. Within her guileless heart there were no secret chambers, no curtained depths, which veiled the inmost sanctuary from her husband's eyes. Unlike as were these twain in all external appearances, there was a similitude of soul which daily joined them more and more closely together. The silver links of perfect sympathy had never been broken, or even jarred; the eyes of both were fixed on the same goal; the feet of both walked in the same path; all their thoughts were in unison; their faith was planted on the same rock; their knees bowed to the same God; theirs was the union of two minds whose strong affinity drew them into one. Not that their love was a dull, unvarying stream, gliding in smooth monotony. It passed through soft gradations into Love's different seasons, every one more perfect than the other, seasons that are exquisitely described by one of our country's minstrels, in these lines: "The Spring-time of love In beauty repose, Is couleur de rose! "The Summer of love Is the bloom of the heart, And lakes show the rainbow "The Autumn of love Is the season of cheer,- "The Winter of love Is the beam that we win, While the storm scowls without, From the sunshine within. Love's reign is eternal, The heart is his throne, And he has all seasons * G. P. Morris. CHAPTER VII. Ill Effects of Mental Precocity. — Preparation for Christmas Pantomime. · Mr. Higgins' Visit and Proposition. —Tina resuming her Profession. “Boxing Night."-The Fairy Queen. -The Pantomime. - The Child's Power of Will. Last Night of the Pantomime. The Last Painful Effort. The Old Property-Room. The Adieus. Mr. Higgins and the Young Actress. Stage Clothes laid aside for the Last Pages of the Prompt-Book. Susan forced to enact Patience in Henry the Eighth. Toilet made by the Bedside of her Child.-The Young Sunday-school Teacher helping to robe the Actress. Hymn sung by Patience to Queen Katharine, as she dies.-The Mother's Return Home. Singing the same Hymn to her Child.—Robin's Entrance. The Last Hymn. Tina's Release. -The Mother's Last Offices. -Unnatural Strength giving way. - Robin's Parting Declaration.— Reunion of Mother and Child. Self-Renunciation. Prompter's Victory. The FIVE months had elapsed since the night of the appalling catastrophe. Tina had not regained her former elastic vigor, but she persuaded herself and her parents that she was restored to health. Had her constitution been strengthened during these first seven years of her life by a close obedience to physical laws, the recuperative powers inherent in childhood might have effected a thorough restoration. It now became evident that the high cultivation of her precocious mind had sapped the springs of vitality. Her so-called recovery was simply toe healing of |