her. She was rapidly learning to love the child, and felt lonely when she was out of her sight.

In the evening they sat together,—father, child, and teacher, or companion, as she really was to them, in the library, communing in silence, no word breaking the spell, until Dawn did so by asking Miss Vernon if she played.

She glanced longingly at the beautiful instrument, which had not been opened since Mrs. Wyman's death, and said,—

"I do play and sing, but not as well as I hope to with opportunities for practice."

"Do open the piano, papa, it will spoil shut up so."

"So it will, Dawn. I will open it this moment," and he silently accused himself for keeping it closed so long.

"Do you love music, Dawn?" asked Miss Vernon, "can you sing?"

"You shall hear her, and then judge. Come, darling, while I play your favorite song;" and he commenced the prelude to a low, sweet air. She began at first tremulously, but gained confidence at each word, until at length her sweet, childish tones rose pure and clear above the voice of her father, who hummed rather than sang the song in his deep, rich bass.

His eyes were full of tears when they closed, for that hymn was his wife's favorite. He had taught it to Dawn, without telling her that her mother ever sung it.

"It seemed just as though mamma was here and sang too, papa, did n't it?"

"Mamma, no doubt, is with us. I am glad my little girl feels her presence, and always remember that she is with you, too, when you feel tempted to do wrong."

She nestled her head on his bosom and wept. Tears of joy or sorrow? Only they whose souls are finely and intensely strung, can know what made her weep.

"You must sing for us now, Miss Vernon," he said, and would have led her to the instrument, but for the burden of love, which was resting on his heart.

"I play only simple songs, Mr. Wyman, and, indeed, am quite out of practice."

"You have some gems stowed away, I know; please sing us one."

She arose, and after a few trembling notes, sang a sweet song with such pathos and richness that Mr. Wyman called again for more and more. Dawn was wild with joy, and then her father, after Miss Vernon declined to play more, proposed that they should sing an evening hymn.

In this they all joined, Miss Vernon's rich contralto blending sweetly with Dawn's pure soprano.

Their dreams were sweet and peaceful that night. Their souls had all met and harmonized, and harmony ever brings rest.

The following day Miss Vernon looked over Dawn's clothing, and laid aside whatever needed repairing. She was just folding some aprons, when the child rushed into the room, saying,—

"O, Miss Vernon, I must wear my blue dress to-day."

"Why that one?"

"Because I feel good, and blue is heavenly, so let me wear it, please, will you?"

"It's rather short, Dawn, but I suppose it will cover all your goodness for one day, will it not?"

"O, don't laugh, I feel truly good to-day, and any other dress would not do."

"You shall have it, Dawn. I am glad you like to dress according to your feelings. I do myself."

"Then how do you feel to-day, and what shall you dress in?"

"I feel very, very happy, but have no garment to symbolize my feelings."

"I don't want you to wear that grey dress, though, to-day?"

"Why?"

"Because it don't say anything."

"Nor my black?"

"O, no, no!"

"How will the drab with blue trimmings suit?"

"It's just the dress. You are silent, and have been rather sad, you know, Miss Vernon, and the blue is the glimmer of sky above your old, dull life. Do wear the drab with blue ribbons."

"I will, Dawn. My life is brighter, because I have some one to love;" and she pressed her lips warmly to the cheeks of her little charge.

When Mr. Wyman came in to dinner he thought he had never seen Dawn looking so fresh and beautiful, while his eyes rested in full satisfaction on Miss Vernon's lovely form, so becomingly arrayed. He liked the absence of the black dress, for its removal seemed to betoken a happier life, a life which he knew she needed, and which he mentally resolved she should possess, so far as he could contribute to it.

At the table, Mr. Wyman was talkative and gay, touching lightly here and there, upon subjects, without argument. It was conversation, not discussion, or an array of opinions, which flowed from the minds of those around the board, and of such a nature that all could join, from young to old.

Miss Vernon delighted in watching him as his eyes rested tenderly on his child. It was charming to witness such a tender relation existing between father and daughter.

The days flew swiftly by, and the still, peaceful Sabbath dawned.

How tranquil, and yet how full of life it seemed to Miss Vernon as she sat at her window and gazed on the scene of beauty before her. A lovely spring morning-the distant hills soft and mellow; the emerald fields glittering with dew-the tasseled pines nodding in the gentle breeze-and the whole atmosphere vibrating with the tones of the Sabbath bells.

"Surely," she said, "I need no form of worship. God is in all this. I wonder if I must go from all these beauties to a temple made with hands."

"Is n't this pleasanter than sitting in a bare walled church?" said Dawn, who had entered the room so softly that Miss Vernon was only made aware of her presence by this inquiry.

"I think it is. Do you go to church?"

"No. Papa does sometimes, but he never makes me go."

"I hope not."

"Shall you go to-day, Miss Vernon?"

"Not if I can act my pleasure."

"I am so glad, for papa said if you did not go, we would all take a walk, but if you wished to go, he would harness Swift and take you.

"I had much rather take the walk to-day. Some day, I shall want to go to your church."

"There, papa is ready, I hear him in the hall. Get your hat, Miss Vernon."

"But you forget he has not yet invited me."

"Dawn, ask Miss Vernon whether she will take a walk with us, or go to church?" said Mr. Wyman, at that moment calling from the foot of the stairs.

Miss Vernon was not long in making known her choice, for she sprang and put on her hat, and in a few moments the three were walking through the garden towards the woods and fields.

"Which direction, Miss Vernon, shall we take?"

"Any; it's all lovely."

"Then lead the way, Dawn, and mind you act as a good pilot, and do not get us into any brooks."

She ran gaily on before, and they soon found themselves on the verge of a rich, mossy dell.

"O, is it not beautiful, papa? I shall carry all this lovely moss home."

"No, Dawn, let it remain. Gather a few specimens from here and there, but do not mar the general beautiful effect. It is ours now; we can not make it more so by carrying it home to fade and die. Can we, darling?"

"No. You are always right and good, papa."

"To-morrow others may come here, and the lovely scene will be as pleasing to them as to us. There is a possession, Miss Vernon, other than that which the world recognizes; and it is always pleasant to me to think that though a man may build himself a palace, and call himself its proprietor, he alone really owns it whose eyes see the most of its beauties, and whose soul appropriates them. And so, a lovely spot like this, or the finest garden may belong to the passer-by whose purse does not contain a penny."

"How it smoothes in life the inequalities of station, and makes us content to admire, rather than strive for ownership."

"I see by your fervent enjoyment of the scene around us, Miss Vernon, that you, too, have discarded some of the old forms of worship, or rather found that a true worship of the divine is not limited by four walls."

"I have. For a long time I have seen so much bigotry, and so great a lack of all the Christian virtues, even in the most liberal churches, that I have felt I must seek my own mode of enjoying the