with her, and gradually to picture the orphan boy growing up to manhood under her careful tutelage, and becoming a great personage in some way or other, although she did not exactly see how that was to be. From this delightful dream she was suddenly aroused by the door opening, and Kate saying, with an ill-suppressed grin

"Here is the young master, ma'am."

Ada jumped up to receive her charge; but the spontaneous rush of her feelings suffered a dreadful check when, in place of a boy of six or seven years of age, coming running into the room, a fellow six-feet-two in height, with moustachios over his upper lip, stalked into her presence. This apparition almost took away her breath: at length she collected herself sufficiently to be able to exclaim

"What! is it you, Robert ?"

"It is me, Ada."

"What has brought you back?"

"Your note of adoption."

"You do not mean to say that you are the son of the late Mrs. Holiday ?"

"I have the happiness to be that person by her first marriage; and although an orphan, I am not the destitute creature you supposed, but the real inheritor of all my father's property."

"And what have you now come here for?"

"To be adopted."

"O! Robert !"

"O! Ada!"

"What am I to do?" exclaimed Ada, whilst tears mingled with the

THE PILGRIM.

By a tinkling fount Melinda mused,
Midst thickets wild and green ;
And watched it sparkling, as it oozed
From rocks with weeds between;

Its music Nature's, and the tune
Was aye and aye the same,

By day's bright sun or night's pale moon,
Still tinkling as it came.

A Pilgrim by the fountain passed,
And paused and heav'd a sigh,

So very deep, 'twas like the last
Some yield just as they die;

His chin was smooth, and raven hair
Streamed, silk-like, round his ears,
And though his brow bore signs of care,
It bore no signs of years.

He spoke not; but he dipt his hand

Into the tiny fount,

And then appeared to praise the land,

And eke to praise the mount

Whence issued such deliciousness,
So grateful to his tongue:

But why was he in Pilgrim's dress,
And him so very young?

He deigned no speech, but sighed again;

Alas! 'twas easy seen,

Some mournful thought had swept his brain,

As tears ran o'er his een:

O! was it for a mother's death,

That thus his tears should run ?— She died, mayhap, in giving breath

To this same Pilgrim one!—

Or was it for a father's woe,

Or for some lady fair?

The one he ne'er was blessed to know,
For other doomed to care:

But, looking at the fount again,
He fetched another sigh,

O! it was that which gave him pain,
And dimmed the Pilgrim's eye.

He turned to wander, as before,
Upon his pilgrimage;

But it did seem that more and more

His thirst began to rage:

He knelt as at a sacred shrine,

And laid aside his staff,

And from his hand the sparkling wine,

Again began to quaff.

What thirst! Melinda thought he had,

And also thought that he,

In quenching it, had grown more sad
Than first he seemed to be;

She also thought that his large eyes

Again were steeped in tears;

And then came thick those wond'ring "Whys ?"— "Why be thus, at his years?"

But it is vain to ask these "Whys ?"

At ourselves silently;

Far better 'tis to quench the sighs

Of those we suffering see;

And ask the reason of their grief,

Wherever it appears;

Then try to give it swift relief,

And wipe away their tears.