I have nothing strange to tell you of our journey. Mary's father and mother were expecting us, and we arrived in time to take tea with them, sending the carriage home with our trunks. After tea, I walked home with Harriet and Florence, while Rover gambolled along as gayly as if he had had no travelling that day.

The next morning there was no difficulty in getting Florence up, for she was so impatient to mount the pony, that I could scarcely persuade her to wait till I was dressed and able to go with her and witness her first lesson in horsemanship. Pony was so gentle that I felt there was little danger in trusting her on him, and so delighted was she with her new amusement, that she rode wherever she went, and I think Harriet was only twice on horseback during her visit, and one of these rides was not taken for her own pleasure. They seldom went out without me, but one morning when I was very much engaged, Mary came over to say, that her governess having gone on a visit to a sick friend, from which she would not return for two days, her mother had given her permission to invite her young friends in the neighborhood to spend the next day with her, and as she was going this morning to give her invitations herself, she wished Florence and Harriet to go with her. Florence was quite ready to go, provided she could ride; so pony was saddled, and as I knew where they were going, and felt there was really no danger in the way, I allowed them to go without me, sending with them, however, a servant whom I knew to be careful and discreet. Gay, laughing and chatting, they set out. The farthest house to which Mary intended extending her invitations was only three quarters of a mile distant, yet as she had several calls to make, I did not expect them to return under an hour and a half, or perhaps two hours. Greatly surprised was I, therefore, when in about half an hour I heard tones which seemed to me very like Mary's, but not gay and laughing, as I had last heard them. Then came a few words from Florence, and there was no mistaking the fact, that her voice was decidedly sulky. Mary was already in the piazza, when, laying aside my work, I approached the window. Harriet was not with her, nor was Florence in sight. With some alarm I inquired, "Where are Harriet and Florence?"

"Florence has rode to the stable, and Harriet has gone for the doctor," Mary replied.

"The doctor!" I exclaimed, still more alarmed; "for whom? Is any thing the matter with Harriet?"

"No, but Mrs. O'Donnel's baby is ill—oh! so ill, Aunt Kitty!—and Harriet has gone for the doctor, and Margaret has stayed with the baby, and sent me back to beg you to go there."

Confused as Mary's account was, it was clear enough that aid was wanted, and without waiting to ask any further questions, I set out, taking with me such simple medicines as I thought might be useful, if I should arrive before the doctor. As I left the parlor Mary followed me, and begged very earnestly to be allowed to go with me and carry some of my vials.

"But Florence, Mary, would you leave her alone?"

"I do not believe Florence cares to have me stay with her, Aunt Kitty, and I am sure I do not wish to stay," said Mary, coloring.

I remembered the angry tones I had heard, and thought it was perhaps wisest not to leave these children together while they were so evidently out of temper, so returning to the parlor, where Florence had just made her appearance, I asked her if she would like to go with me.

"No," she replied, "I am tired."

"Then, my dear, rest yourself on the sofa a while, and when you get up, look in that closet and you will find some peaches. Mary is going with me, but I will send Harriet to you as soon as I see her."

"I do not want Harriet or Mary either," said Florence, impatiently.

I soon found that I had not left all the ill-humor behind when I left Florence, for we were scarcely down the steps before Mary expressed her conviction, that "there never was such another selfish girl as Florence Arnott."

"Mary," said I, "I once told you that you were hasty in pronouncing Florence to be very generous; but that was not so blameable as your present condemnation of her, whatever she may have done. It may be unwise to be ready to praise so highly on the acquaintance of a few days, but it is unamiable to blame so severely for a single fault."

"But, Aunt Kitty, it is not a single fault. I have been thinking a long time, almost ever since you told me what made a person generous, that Florence was not so generous as I thought at first; but I do think anybody that would rather a poor little baby should die than to lose a ride for themselves, is very selfish, very selfish indeed," repeated Mary, with great emphasis.—"And now, Aunt Kitty," she continued, "I will tell you how it was, and then you will see if I am not right."

"Stop, my dear Mary," said I, as she was about to commence her story, "you are just now very angry with Florence, and would not therefore be a fair witness in the case. I had rather hear from some one else how it was."

"Why, Aunt Kitty," said Mary, with a very proud look, "you do not think I would tell you a story, I hope."

"No, my love, I am sure you would tell me nothing which you did not believe to be true; but anger makes the words and looks, and even the actions of people, appear to us very unlike what they really are. However, you have no time to tell me any thing, even if I wished it, for here we are at Mrs. O'Donnel's."

My readers may not be as unwilling as I was to hear what Mary had to say, so I will tell them what I afterwards heard of the morning's adventures from Margaret and Harriet, as soon as I have given them some account of Mrs. O'Donnel and her baby.