sipping the dew-drop from the heather-bell, or heard the hoarse voice of the water-spirit in the pauses of the wind. O those were days never, never to be forgotten!-a spot of emerald green in the fair garden of our lives." The colour deepened in Florence's cheek, and mounted to her forehead, her eyes sparkled with animation; her whole appearance seemed changed. Miss Seymour looked at her in astonishment.

“Yes,” she continued, "his name is to us as a magic wand! awakening into life again the brightest scenes of past existence ;-then those evenings of mysterious delight, when round the crackling fire we listened to his tales of wonder, fancying a voice in every wind,' and terrified to move, lest in our shadows we should see the fearful forms he had been describing."

Miss Seymour had touched the master chord in Florence's glowing imagination; but Mr. Maitland rose from the bench on which, under a spreading tree, they had seated themselves, and in a moment poetry, elves, fairies, sprites, all gave way to her eager wish to be of

service to him. She took his arm, and guiding him to the shady side of the road, they all advanced towards the hotel, to which Mr. and Mrs. Percy had already preceded

them.

G

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CHAPTER VIII.

THE moment of separation arrived, and to those happy girls, new to life, and in all the brightness of hope and joy, it seemed a misfortune of no ordinary magnitude. Mary, with her eyes fixed on Emily Seymour, struggled with her emotion, her colour at one moment mounting to her forehead, and in the next fading to an alabaster hue; while her sister sat with her face buried in her hands, the tears trickling between her slender fingers. Suddenly looking up, she exclaimed, "This is wrong, quite wrong; it is our duty to bear this separation with fortitude. Yet it is very sad; it is not losing a mere acquaintance, it is parting with a dear friend, -yes, a dear friend; for have we not known

you, and loved you ever since that happy day, when you were little Emily, and papa brought you in his pocket from Worcester ?"

Florence's sunny smile for a moment chased the tear from her cheek, but again sighing deeply, she continued, "I do feel so very very sorry, for we had so longed to meet a friend we could love! What can we do to lessen the bitterness of this separation? We could write to each other, could we not? But wanderers as we are both about to become, to what corner of this new world could we address our letters? No, that will not do. Let me consider."

She bent her head, and seemed lost in thought.

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We might write a journal," whispered Mary. "A journal!" exclaimed Florence, brightening up, "it is an excellent idea,-it is the very best thing you could have thought of. Mary, in your own quiet way you have always something comforting to propose. How is it that I never thought of this? Yes, let each of us write a journal; let us detail every event, every thought, every feeling, and let us ex

change our journals on that happy day when we shall meet again in green England, our own dear native land."

They parted with some tears, but many pleasing anticipations of a future day of joy, each determined not only to seek interesting events, but to find them; and to detail their adventures with a fidelity hitherto unequalled, and in language and brightness of colouring which would overwhelm all former journal writers with hopeless despair.

Mr. Percy proceeded with his family straight to Paris, and on the second evening after their arrival, Florence, faithful to her promise, seated herself at her beautiful writing-desk, which Mr. Maitland had given her before leaving England, and thus commenced the promised journal.

FLORENCE TO EMILY.

"Paris, November 5.

"Florence to Emily,-how well it sounds! yet I fear it may not be the regular way of beginning a journal. Well, let it pass, I write to an indulgent friend. A friend!-how sweet