many successive generations. Fathers had tilled the soil, then laid aside the plough for ever. Sons had sprung up to take their place, and they too, in their turn, were gathered in, when the bearded grain was ripe for the sickle of the great 'Reaper, whose name is Death,' leaving the old homestead to others of the same name and race, who loved the home in which they were born, and wherein those they most cherished had lived and died.

The Swallows, too, loved it, returning year after year to their nests under the eaves, and from early dawn 'to dewy eve,' all through the warm summer days, flew hither and thither with swift, untiring wing, chasing each other, as it were, or teaching their young to fly. As to the Robins, they hopped in at the open door under the rustic porch, just as if they belonged to the place, and were sure of a welcome, which indeed they were! And that porch—what a cosy corner it was, with seats on either side, inviting weary feet to rest! the sunbeams were always playing bo-peep through the leaves which hung clustering around; the Honeysuckles and Clematis decking it, too, with their blossoms, scattering their delicious perfume the while. But I always thought the spot looked brightest when little Susie was there—she who was the very sunshine of the old home! And how they all loved her, from the white-headed grandfather down to the little ploughboy, who brought her all the poor motherless or sick creatures he found on the farm, were it but a half-fledged bird or a stray kitten, certain of her thanks, and a sweet smile; and as to her three big brothers, who had such influence over them as little Susie? for even when they were disputing as to whose turn it was to ride Brown Bess (the joint property of the children), Susie was always chosen umpire to decide the important question, and they abode by her decision.

Why, it was Susie who saved us from being ruthlessly destroyed! for it happened that one day old Peter was at work in the garden, and, to make the place 'a bit more tidy,' as he said, was proceeding to cut us off from the wall.

'They bain't o' much account,' he muttered, sharpening his hook; 'not loike them there Roses maister sets sich store by, and thinks so much on.'

Certainly it seemed very sad that, because we were merely 'common flowers,' our lives were to be cut short long before the appointed time; we had endeavoured to bloom as brightly as our more refined sisters, and in sunshine or shower had tried our best to look gay, and, I think, had succeeded, for we do not shut our petals as if we were sulking when dark clouds come, but keep them always open. But the fiat had gone forth—old Peter was the stern arbitrator of our destinies! and, feeling that our fate was inevitable, we sighed a last long farewell to each other, just as we saw him raise his sharp hook to cut us down. At that moment, so 'big with fate' for us, who should come into the garden, singing for very gladness like the birds themselves, but little Susie; the sunlight was playing with her waving hair, her eyes sparkled as the dewdrops in the sun, and her tiny feet skipped lightly along as she came dancing up the pathway.

That prolonged our lives! Old Peter dropped his hook to turn round and look at his young mistress.

'What are you going to do, Peter?' she inquired, as she drew near, and saw him take up his tools to resume work.

'Whoy, lop doun these 'ere things, Miss Zusie,' he replied, pointing at us contemptuously.

'Oh, please don't destroy them! they are so pretty!' was her eager exclamation.

'Purty, missie!' the old man repeated, with astonishment; 'whoy, them be wild loike.'

'But I love them dearly,' she persisted; 'so please leave them there.'

'But the maister?' pursued Peter, rubbing his rough head in his perplexity; 'he told me to clear roight up.'

Peter, it must be observed, was 'the odd man' about the farm; there is always one.

'Father will say you did quite right to let them live,' replied the little lady; 'he likes them as much as I do, for he says he remembers them always growing here, coming up year after year without troubling any one to look after them, and making the old wall a very flower-garden.'

'Well, Miss Zusie, if so be ye sez so, I s'pose I must,' he acquiesced, though I think he was greatly disappointed that he could not have his own way about it; so there we were left, and we bloomed more than ever, striving to do our best in gratitude to the little maiden.

Now, I have noticed, as a rule,—mind, every rule has exceptions,—that good deeds, like good seed, seldom fall to the ground and wither away. Both may lie fallow, for a while at least, but the flower comes up after a while, and 'with what measure ye mete, it is meted to you again.' You may not have remarked this, perhaps, but the fact holds good, proving most emphatically the sacred truth, 'Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.'

Now, when Susie saved our lives, she never thought that simple flowers could ever repay her kindness, and for some time, it is true, we did nothing, only strove to make the garden wall look gay with our sturdy buds and blossoms.

But one day, I remember, Susie sat on the lawn close by the wall on which we grew, very busy making a smart new dress for her doll, Miss Arabella, who sat propped up by a work-box at her back, with her arms straight out, and her toes turned in, but with a sweet smile upon her waxen face. They were evidently engaged in earnest conversation, for Susie kept speaking in her own voice for herself, and using a very shrill falsetto for Arabella, who, by the bye, appeared to reply only in monosyllables.

In the midst of this very entertaining discourse I heard another voice exclaiming,—

'Look 'ee 'ere, Miss Zusie, this vowl 'ave airt her vut;' and the small ploughboy I before mentioned came in at the garden gate, holding a hen in his arms.

'Oh, give it to me, Joey,' cried the little girl, full of sympathy for the wounded bird. 'How did it happen? Poor dear, poor dear!'

With that Joey poured forth a long account of the accident, to which she listened attentively, all the while soothing the lamed hen, and wrapping it up in her soft frock.

'I will bathe its poor foot in warm water, and try to get it well,' she said, after thanking Joey for bringing it to her; and she went into the house, leaving Arabella alone on the lawn, cautioning her, however, 'to be a good child until mamma returned.'

It was some days before we again saw the hen, and then she was quite restored, and had been given to Susie as her 'very own' because of the care she had bestowed upon her; indeed, she had become quite a pet, actually was allowed to roam about the flower-garden and lawns; and some one had given her the name of 'Zenobia,'—an inconvenient name to call when in a hurry, but Susie was very satisfied with it, and so, I suppose, was the hen, who seemed to love her little mistress, following her wherever she went, eating from her hand, and even perching on her shoulder! After some time Zenobia was to be seen walking about, followed by a family of nine chickens; and really I cannot tell which was most proud of the young brood, Susie or the hen. Susie called them 'loves' and 'beauties,' and the hen, she clucked, and made a great fuss over them, and, as if determined that their bed should be of roses, insisted on roosting every night under a rose-bush which grew near the garden gate, instead of the cosy coop with which she had been provided.

Well, one moonlight night we, of course, were awake, though the church clock had long since struck the hour of midnight;