About a fortnight after my first arrival at Hazel Grove commenced that delightful season which we call Indian Summer. I dare say you all know that by this we mean the two or three weeks of mild pleasant weather which we generally have in November, after the frosty nights and cold winds have made us suppose that Winter has come. I have no doubt that you all love better to be in the open air at this season than at any other,—that you play more merrily when out, and go in more reluctantly. But you have perhaps enjoyed the season without exactly knowing the reason of your enjoyment. Now I would have you, when next there is an Indian Summer, notice how pure and balmy the air is, and of how deep and rich a yellow are the beams of the sun. I would have my young friends observe all the beautiful and pleasant things with which God has surrounded them, for if they do not, they will fail to give Him, in return, the tribute of loving and grateful hearts which is due to Him.

It was on one of these bright, pure, golden days in Indian Summer that I seated myself as usual after breakfast in Mrs. Wilmot's library, but I tried in vain either to read or write. Do what I would, my eyes would turn to the windows, and instead of the words on the page before me, I saw the leaves on the trees, the white clouds sailing over the bright blue sky, or the little birds hopping from branch to branch. If I had had lessons to learn that day I know not what I should have done,—but I had no lessons to learn, so I threw my book aside, put on my shawl and bonnet, and was soon walking in that beautiful wood whose appearance on my first arrival I have described to you. Delightful indeed was my walk—full of pleasant sights and sounds,—and often did I wish for some of my young friends to partake of my enjoyments, as I saw a shower of bright-colored leaves whirling about in the air whenever the wind stirred the branches of the trees, or a shy rabbit spring away to a safer hiding-place, or a startled squirrel dart to the topmost boughs which overhung my path, as the dry leaves rustled under my feet. So I wandered on, observing all these things, but meeting no one till I had nearly passed the wood. Then I heard a low, gentle voice singing. I listened, approaching as softly as possible. Soon I could hear the words, and found that they were French. It was a hymn describing the beauties of nature, and expressing the devotion of a grateful loving heart to Him who made it so beautiful. I afterwards had the words of this hymn from Cecille, and have tried to translate them into English verse for you. Here is my translation.

When I was quite near Cecille my steps caused her to look around. She did not seem at all startled or surprised at seeing me, but with a pleasant smile held out her hand to me as I bade her good morning.

"I see, Cecille," said I, "that this lovely weather makes you an idler as well as me."

"Not quite an idler, ma'am," she replied, showing me a drawing she had made while sitting there, of the Widow Daly's cottage and orchard.

"For what is that pretty drawing intended, Cecille?"

"I hardly know yet, ma'am. The sun looked so bright and warm, that grandmamma knew I longed to be in it, so she made me put away my embroidery and come out, and this was the only thing I could do out here."

After looking at it a moment in silence, she added, "Do you not think it would make a pretty painting for the top of a work-box?"

"Yes, very pretty; but are you never idle, Cecille?"

"Not often, ma'am," said she, modestly.

"And do you not get weary of being always at work?"

"Weary of working for grandmamma—dear, good grandmamma!" she exclaimed, with energy. "Oh, no!—never." A minute after, speaking more quietly, she said, "Perhaps I should get tired, but when the work seems dull and hard, I always remember what Mr. Logan told me to do."

"And what was that, Cecille?"

"He said that at such times I must think of something that grandmamma wanted very much, and say to myself, this will help me to buy it when it is done, and he was sure then I would not get tired, or want to put my work down."

"Mr. Logan was a very wise man. Where did you know him?"

"In N., a little village that we went to when we first came over from France, when my dear papa was with us. He lived there with us for four years before he went back to France. My own dear papa, how I wish I could see him!"

"You remember your father then," said I.

"Remember him!" she repeated; "why it is only two years since he left us to go back to France."

"And what made him leave you, Cecille?" said I—then in an instant, feeling that my interest in Cecille had made me ask a question which it might be wrong in her to answer, I added, "Do not answer me, my child, if it was any thing which you think your father would not wish you to tell."

"Oh, no!" said Cecille, smiling, "it was only because some friends wrote to him to say that if he would come to France, they thought they could get the king to give him back an estate that had been unjustly taken from him."

"And should he get it, would you return to France, Cecille?"

"Yes, for papa and grandmamma love France so well, that they will never, I think, be quite happy anywhere else. My mamma is buried there too, on that same estate."

"Do you remember her, Cecille?"

"No—she died when I was a very little baby, and my grandmamma took care of me just as if she had been my own mamma. Papa told me all about it the night before he went away from us, and then he divided all the money that was left of what he had brought from France into two parcels, and he made me count what he took, and showed me that it was just enough to pay for his going back; and he told me how much was in the other parcel, that he was to leave with grandmamma. It seemed a great deal to me then, but papa said it was very little, and that it could not last long. Then he told me that he had taught me all he could himself, and had others teach me what he could not, in order that I might be able to work for grandmamma and myself, and I must do it when that money was gone, if I hoped for his blessing."

"And what made you leave N.?"

"Because it was such a little village that I could hardly get any work there. Mr. Logan advised us to go to New York; and we set out to go there, but the stage broke down with us here, and if it was not that poor grandmamma had suffered so much, I should be glad it did."

"You like your home here, then?"

"Oh, yes! dear Dr. Willis and Mrs. Wilmot are so kind to us. And then it is so pleasant to teach Clara and Grace, and every month to carry home some money to grandmamma."

"Then you carry to her whatever is paid you?"

"Yes; and after she has taken out what will pay Mrs. Daly our rent, and any thing else we happen to owe, she gives me back the rest to do what I please with. I long for this month to be gone, that I may get my money,—for I have something very good to do with it this month."

She looked up so pleasantly in my face, that I said, "Will you not tell me what it is, Cecille?"

"Yes, if you will not tell, for I want to surprise grandmamma. I am going to get her some flannel. I have found out already how much it will cost, and I will have a plenty of money, with a little that I laid by from the last month, to get it. Then I will get some one to show me how to cut it out, and it shall be all made before grandmamma sees it. Do you not think she will be pleased?"

"Very much pleased, I doubt not," I replied, "and you must let me cut it for you, and assist you in making it."

"Will you do that? That will be very kind."

We were both silent a little while, when Cecille, suddenly looking up, asked, "Do you not speak French?"

"Yes," I replied.

"Then you must come and see my grandmamma. Will you not?"

"Certainly—with pleasure; but does she not speak English?"

"A little, but it is not easy to her—and so I do not ask people to see her who cannot understand her French."

"Shall I go with you now?" I asked.

Cecille looked up to the sun and down again, without speaking. I saw she was a little embarrassed, and said, "You would rather I should not go to-day."

"Yes—for it is near grandmamma's dinner-time, and I must go to get it for her," she added, rising.

I rose too, and taking her hand, said, "Well, good-by, Cecille—remember we are not to be strangers any longer."

"No, no," she said, warmly, "friends—good friends now." She held up her face to be kissed, picked up her pencil and drawing, and hastened away. Before she had gone far I could again hear her carolling cheerfully, "Thine, Father, is yon sky so bright."