We dined at Mr. Dickinson's, and as the weather was warm, waited till near sunset before we returned home. As we got into the carriage, Mr. Dickinson said, "I shall expect you to-morrow, if the weather be fine."

Harriet turned her head anxiously towards the west to see what weather the setting sun would promise us. It was just then under a cloud, but we had not gone a quarter of a mile before it shone out very brightly. Harriet clapped her hands and cried out, "Oh, Aunt Kitty, is it not delightful?"

"It is very beautiful, my dear, certainly," said I, looking at the cloud which glittered like the brightest gold in the sunlight.

"But, Aunt Kitty, I mean, is it not delightful to think that we shall have such a fine day to-morrow to go to Flowerhill?"

"Why, Harriet, are you not a little whimsical, to be so highly delighted with the prospect of doing to-morrow what, when I first proposed it to you to-day, you seemed rather disinclined to do?"

"That was because I thought Mr. Dickinson was cross, but William says he is not cross at all; and then, you know, Aunt Kitty, Jessie is to go with us to-morrow, and I am sure, almost, that Mr. Graham will get the place."

"I wish I felt sure, Harriet, or even almost sure of it; but Mr. Dickinson seems very decided not to have any children about his garden."

"But, Aunt Kitty, when he sees how careful Jessie is, do you not think he may?"

"We will hope for the best, Harriet. But even should Mr. Graham not gain the place, Harriet Armand may gain a lesson from this business, and a very useful lesson too. Do you see what this lesson is, or shall I tell you?"

Harriet thought a minute, and then said, "You must tell me, Aunt Kitty, unless it is that I must be very careful in a garden, and especially in Mr. Dickinson's garden." This last was said with a laugh.

"No, Harriet, it is a far graver and more important lesson than this. It is, that you must be careful everywhere to do no wrong—not the least—for that which seems to you a very little wrong may be followed by very great evil, and by evil to others as well as to yourself. Those children who have offended Mr. Dickinson, I dare say, thought it no great harm that they now and then picked a flower, or, in their play, ran over and trampled down the beds in his garden; yet you see how much evil has followed,—their own parents have lost their pleasant home, and now the remembrance of their bad conduct may prevent a good man's getting a situation which would save his family from great distress. God has taught us, my child, that wrong-doing always brings suffering, but what, or how great that suffering may be, we know not. Remember this, Harriet; and remember, too, that when once the wrong is done, however bitterly we may mourn over it, we cannot undo it, and the suffering will follow—we cannot escape it."

"But, Aunt Kitty," said Harriet, in a low and hesitating tone, "if we are sorry for what we do wrong,—if we mourn over it, as you say, will not God forgive us?"

"Yes, Harriet, He will forgive us, and so take away from us the worst of all evils—His displeasure. He will pity us, and his 'loving-kindness' will comfort us under our suffering;—but the suffering must come, and either by enduring it ourselves or by seeing others endure it, we shall be taught how much better it would have been if we had not done the wrong—how wise was that commandment of God which forbade us to do it."

The sun had set before we were at home. Harriet's first inquiry was, if Jessie had been yet to feed the cow. She had been, the servant said, and had gone back home only a few minutes before we arrived. I told Harriet that after we had taken tea we would walk over to Mr. Graham's together, and invite Jessie to go with us in the morning.

"And may I tell her, Aunt Kitty, all about your trying to get the place for her father, and beg her to be very careful not to touch the flowers?"

"No, Harriet, Jessie would, like you, probably feel almost sure of the place for her father, and the disappointment would be very hard to bear if he did not get it. Besides, I promised Mr. Dickinson to give her no caution."

"But, Aunt Kitty, I may just tell her how cross Mr. Dickinson is, so that she may feel very much afraid to touch any thing."

"Harriet!" said I, "have you forgotten already William Temple's assurances that his uncle is not cross at all?"

"No, Aunt Kitty, I have not forgotten—I did not mean how cross, but how particular he is."

"I think you had better say nothing to spoil Jessie's enjoyment of a pleasant day. You would do no good by making her afraid to move. Mr. Dickinson would see quickly enough that she was not acting naturally, and would place no confidence in the continuance of such extreme cautiousness." Harriet still looked anxious, and I added, "I can trust Jessie without any cautions."

The evening was very still—so still, that, as we walked to Mr. Graham's, we could hear the grasshoppers jumping from our path, and the lowing of a cow in a field near us sounded so loud, that Harriet started as if it had been some strange noise. As we passed the garden we heard old Mrs. Graham's voice, and though the fence was too high for me to see them, I soon found that she and Jessie were walking just inside of it, and therefore near enough for us to hear what they said. Had they been talking of any thing which they might not have wished a stranger to hear, I would have spoken to them, but as this was not the case, and as I was interested in their conversation, I motioned to Harriet to keep quiet and listen to it.

"Ah, yes, Jessie, it is a pretty place—a very pretty place," said Mrs. Graham.

"But, grandmother," said Jessie, "there are a great many other places just as pretty."

"Maybe so, Jessie, maybe so, but there are none, child, we love so well."

"But when we get used to them, grandmother, we should get to love them, should we not?"

Mrs. Graham was silent for a minute or two, till Jessie said, "Say, grandmother, should we not?"

"I was thinking, my dear, and I do not think I could. You would, Jessie, for the hearts of young people like you are full of hope. You are always thinking of the pleasure you will have to-morrow, or the next week, or the next month, and every change, you think, will bring some enjoyment. But our hearts, Jessie, the hearts of the old, are full of what we remember of the pleasures we have had already, and which can never come back to us, and we love the old places best where we can look around and say to ourselves—'There I had a pleasant walk with such a dear friend; and, There I sat when I heard such a piece of good news; and so on.' Do you understand me, Jessie?"

"Yes, grandmother." After a while, Jessie said in a very low voice, so that I could just hear her, "Grandmother, did not grandfather live here?"

"Yes, my child, and I was just going to tell you, Jessie, that there is one move I would be willing to make; I would be willing to live near, quite near, the church, for it is getting to be hard work for me to get in and out of a wagon, and I cannot walk so far now, and though I am sure you take good care of grandfather's grave, I shall still want to see it sometimes myself."

Flowerhill was quite near the country church in whose grave-yard Mr. Graham had been buried, and Harriet could not resist whispering to me, "Oh, Aunt Kitty, it will just do."

Mrs. Graham said nothing more, and when we entered the house at the front door, she and Jessie were just coming up the steps which led from the garden. Jessie was delighted with the promise for to-morrow, and so often repeated how good it was in Mr. Dickinson to let William Temple ask her, that I saw Harriet was quite afraid that Mr. Dickinson would not appear awful enough in Jessie's eyes, and that she longed to add, "but he is very particular." It was arranged that we were to go quite early in the morning, that is, by nine o'clock, when it would be still cool and pleasant. This hour did not make it necessary for us to rise earlier than we usually did, as we always breakfasted at seven o'clock in summer. Yet, so much was Harriet excited, that three times in the night she called out from her little room, to ask if I thought it near daylight, and she started up in the morning with the first ray of sunlight. As soon as she was dressed, I sent her for Mary Mackay. Before breakfast was on table all my company was collected, and a merrier company was certainly never seen, except Harriet, who, though pleased, was anxious. Mary jumped, and danced, and laughed, and sung, till Harriet exclaimed, "Mary, if you do so at Mr. Dickinson's he will think you crazy. I am sure he would not trust anybody who danced about as you are doing, in his garden for one moment."

"I do not care to go in his garden," said Mary, "I would rather a great deal play under the trees with William."

"But you must go in the garden, Mary, or you will not see the flower, and you know you were asked to see the flower."

"Don't be afraid, Harriet; I'll go in the garden, and when I do, I'll walk so," putting her hands down close to her side as she spoke, and mincing her steps as if she was treading on something she was afraid of crushing. I had a little suspicion that this lesson was intended by Harriet more for Jessie than for Mary.