of ground at the end of the garden, clothed
with thick grass, daisies, buttercups, and bull's-
eyes, and shaded with grey old filbert, and a
scattering of no less ancient apple and pear
trees. The sun was getting down so that his
rays struck slantingly through the mossy trunks,
and a soft "even-blowing wind" made the leaves
dance and rustle, and throw flickers of light
and shadow on the grass, all bending before the
breeze, and now and then a rosy apple or a
bunch of nuts would come down with a soft
thud on the ground.

Nelly, awaiting her father's return, roved up
and down, now swallowed up in shade, now
shone upon by the slanting rays, which gilded
her russet hair, and lovingly touched into
transparence her ruddy cheek and clear brown neck.
Presently, while picking a nut from its husks,
she was aware of footsteps behind her, and
looking round, she saw Andrew Graham. Taking
off his hat, with his nervous look, he addressed
her.

"I—I beg your pardon—but—a—I wished
to speak to your father, and I was told he was
expected every moment, and—a—I took the
liberty——"

"You are quite welcome," Nelly said, with a
smile; "will you come into the house or do
you prefer remaining here?"

"Oh, just as you like—it is such a lovely
day——" and without finishing his speech, he
fell into her step, and they sauntered on, side
by side.

It was the first time Nelly had ever been
alone with him, and though she was neither
prudish nor shy, she felt puzzled how to
commence the conversation.

"You have been for one of your long walks?"

"Yes—at least, not very long." A pause.

"Won't you put on your hat?" seeing that
he carried it in his hand.

"Oh no, I prefer going without my hat."
Another pause. Just then a bunch of nuts fell
plump on the librarian's head, and made him
exclaim, putting up his hand, "Bless me, what
can that be?" then it dropped on the grass at
his feet, and they both laughed, and he picked
it up and presented it to Nelly, who quickly
divested the filberts of their sheath, and cracking
one like a squirrel, with her head on one side,
nibbled it with her white teeth.

This had broken the stiffness, and they began
to talk, till the librarian suddenly, to his own
amazement, found himself describing to his
companion some of the flowers he had seen in South
America, and giving her a practical lesson in
botany on a large white-rayed bull's eye. And
then the doctor came home, and insisted on his
staying to dinner; and, after dinner, the good
man, as was his wont, fell asleep in his easy-
chair; and the twilight came on gradually, and
the yellow harvest moon rose from behind the
elms, and Nelly and the librarian sat by the
window to look at it; and he described to her
—speaking softly, so as not to disturb the doctor
—how he had lain on his back on the prairie and
watched it rise and set many a night some years
ago. Nelly wondered she had never noticed
before what a pleasant tone of voice he had,
and when he became earnest and eloquent, she
thought that, hearing him talk thus, one could
quite forget his hollow cheeks, and his thin hair,
and his shirt-collars. Can you not see, reader,
how it all came about? Need I tell how in the
spring there was a wedding at Summerfield, and
that Nelly Britton was the bride, and Andrew
Graham—with a face a little fuller, hair brushed
to the best advantage, and modified shirt-collars
—the bridegroom?

CHARITY AT HOME.

IN the midst of the many high-sounding
efforts that are now being made on behalf of
public charities, let me put in a word for the
quiet, uncomplaining, retiring poor, who starve
and struggle and die under the shadow of our
comfortable homes, unseen and unheeded
because they are so very close to us. British
charity has a fine portly presence; it likes to
keep its head well in the air while it walks
abroad, and it is rather far sighted.

I will admit that England has cause to be
proud of her charitable institutions. In no
other country on the face of the earth are there
to be found so many hospitals, refuges,
reformatories, homes, schools, and other kindred
institutions for the relief and benefit of the poor
and the unfortunate. Some of the handsomest
of our public buildings are hospitals, compared
to which one or two of our royal palaces are
mere barns. Our public charity is all-abounding,
all-embracing. It is ever active, ever going
about seeking for objects. It is never disposed
to rest and be thankful. It has an ambition
like Alexander's, and, when it has assuaged the
whole world of suffering within its reach, it
sighs for new worlds to conquer with its
inexhaustible benevolence. And our national charity
has this further merit, that it takes pains to be
discriminative and systematic. It does not, like
the ostentatious prodigal, fling its money into
the common road to be scrambled for by the
mob. It selects its objects, and subdivides its
efforts. It takes thought for all the ills that
flesh is heir to, and is never weary of well
doing.

All this, and a great deal more, may be said
in glorification of British charity; but while
much good is done by the united efforts of the
benevolent, we still fall short of our duty to the
poor as individuals and neighbours. Our charity
is chiefly extended to public and national
institutions, to the neglect, in a great measure, of
the poor, the sick, and the friendless, who reside
round about our own doors, and who are the
last to parade their misfortunes in the face of
the public.

There are persons who refuse alms to a beggar
on the plea that they pay poor-rates. So there
are persons who consider that they have fulfilled
all their duty to their poor neighbours when
they have subscribed to a certain number of
hospitals and soup-kitchens. This easy
wholesale manner of doing our works of charity, as