of a bunch of holly by some “green” hand.

There were the usual number of young ladies, all of whose faces I knew so well, engaged in the pious work; with Horner, Mr Mawley the curate, and one or two other attendant male aides, to minister to their needs—such as stripping off leaves for wreath making—and help them to flirt the dull hours away. Dear little Miss Pimpernell, our vicar’s maiden sister and good right hand, presided, also, to preserve order and set an example for industrious souls to follow, just as she had been in the habit of presiding as far back as I could recollect.

She was not there merely as a chaperon. Oh no! If Lady Dasher, sitting on an upturned form in a corner, like a very melancholy statue of Patience, was not sufficient to prevent the prudent proprieties from being outraged, there was, also, the “model of all the virtues” present—Miss Spight—a lady of a certain age, who, believing, as the kindly beings of her order do, that there was too large a flow of the milk of human kindness current in the world, deemed it her mission to temper this dispensation by the admixture of as much vitriol and vinegar as in her lay: she succeeded pretty well, too, for that matter, in her practice and belief.

Little Miss Pimpernell was quite a different sort of body altogether to Miss Spight. Every one who knew her, or ever saw her kindly face, loved her and venerated her.

She was the very impersonification of good-nature, good-will, and good action. Did any misfortune chance to befall some one with whom she was acquainted, or any casual stranger with whom she might be brought in contact, there was none of that “I told you so” spirit of philosophy about her.

No; she tried to do her best for the sufferer as well as she was able; and would not be contented until she was absolutely satisfied that matters had somewhat mended.

Young and old, rich and poor, alike considered her as one of their best friends—as indeed she was—a good Samaritan to whom they might always confide their griefs and ailments, their sufferings and privations, with the assurance that they would certainly meet with a kindly sympathy and a word of comfort, in addition to as much practical assistance in their adversity and physical consolation in their need as “little” Miss Pimpernell—that was the fond title she was always known by—could compass or give.

The worst of it was, that she was in such general request, that we had to make up our minds to lose her sometimes.

Of course it was a selfish consideration, but we missed her and grumbled at her visits and absences sadly; for, when she was away, everything appeared to go wrong in the parish. Still none, knowing the gratification that her ministrations gave her, would have grudged her their indulgence.

She was never so happy as when she was helping somebody; and, of course, people took advantage of her weakness, and were merciless in their calls upon her time.

Whenever the most distant cousin or stray relative happened to be ill—or about to move into a new house, or be married, or increase the population in defiance of Malthus, or depart from the pomps and vanities of this wicked world—as sure as possible would Miss Pimpernell be sent for post haste. She had, as a matter of course, to nurse the patient, assist the flitting, accelerate the wedding, welcome the little stranger, or console the mourners as the case might be.

We, the inhabitants of the suburb which she blessed with her presence, thought all this a gross infringement of our rights in her possession, although we welcomed the dear old lady all the more gladly when we got her back again amongst us once more.

As for confidences, I believe she had the skeleton secret of every soul in the place confided to her sacred keeping at some one time or other; and love stories! why, she must have been cram full of them—from the heart-breaking affair of poor little Polly Skittles, the laundress’ pretty daughter, up to Baby Blake’s last flirtation.

What her brother would have done without her, it would be impossible to tell. She had quite as much to do with the parish as he; and, I’m sure, if little Miss Pimpernell had not kept house for him and minded all his temporal affairs, he would never have known what to eat or drink, or what to put on.

The vicar had lost his wife soon after his marriage, when he was quite a young man; but, instead of being bowed down by his affliction, as might have been the case with a good many ardent natures like his, he earnestly fought against it, buckling to his work, all the more vigorously perhaps, as one of Christ’s ministers.

Everybody thenceforth was wife and child, brother and sister to him: humanity in general took the place of all family ties.

He was the purest Christian character I have ever come across, lovable, intelligent, winning and merry, too, at times, in spite of his grief—would that all ministers were like him to uphold the old love and honour of our national Church!

No orator or skilled preacher in the pulpit, he simply led you captive by his earnestness and evident thorough belief in all that he uttered; so that “those who came to scoff, remained to pray.” No hard, metallic repetition by rote was his; but the plain, unvarnished story of the gospel which he felt and of whose truth he was assured, animated by a broad spirit of Protestantism that led him to extend a raising hand to every erring brother, and see religion in other creeds besides his own.

        “In his duty prompt at every call,
He watch’d and wept, he pray’d and felt for all;
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way!”

He and his good sister were, in fact, a pair of heart-oddities, whom to know was to admire with reverential affection. They could not have had an enemy or slanderer in the world. Even Miss Spight had never a word to say against either; that alone spoke volumes for them.

“Oh, Frank,” exclaimed little Miss Pimpernell as I entered the school-room—she always called me by my Christian name, or styled me her “boy,” having known me from childhood—“Oh, Frank! Here you are at last! I am so glad to see you back again, my boy: you have just come in time to help us. I was really afraid those nasty Frenchmen had eaten you up, you have been such a long time away!”

“I dare say there’s enough left of him,” sneered Mr Mawley the curate. He was the direct opposite of the vicar; and a man whom I cordially detested, the feeling, I believe, being mutual. He was consequential, dogmatic, and with all the self-asserting priggishness of young Oxford fresh upon him. I confess I was pretty much inclined the same way myself; so, it was but natural that we should disagree: two suns, you know, cannot shine in the same hemisphere.

Before I could answer him, Miss Pimpernell hastily interposed. She hated to hear us arguing and bickering as was generally our way when we met. “Please bring the measuring tape, Frank,” she said, “you will find it on that bench in the corner; and come and see how long my wreath is. It should be just nineteen feet, but I’m afraid I am a yard short.”

By the time I had done as my old friend requested, the conversation which I had interrupted by my advent resumed its course. They were talking about the future world, and ventilating sundry curious thoughts on the subject.

“And what do you think heaven will be like?” asked Seraphine Dasher, appealing to me. “Everybody’s opinion has been given but yours and Miss Pimpernell’s, and Mr Mawley’s; and I’m coming to them presently.”

“I’m sure I can’t say,” I answered, “perhaps a combination of choral music, running water, I mean the sound of brooks gliding and fountains splashing,