and played, and the birds all praised her voice, and made much of her, especially the beautiful bird that bad asked her to come down. And then, how Chirpy fell asleep; and when she awoke was sick, and ill, and sorry, and loathed the thought of the rich fruits and the coloured fountains, and began to sigh for the clear fresh water in her own garden. And how she observed, for the first time, that the birds did not sing sweetly, as she and her father and mother had done in the old cherry-tree, but had nasty harsh, hoarse, discordant voices. And how, when she came to look closely at them, she saw that their gay feathers were only painted, and that really they were ugly, and hideous, and loathsome; and she found, too, that there were wasps in the fruit, and snakes amongst the grass; and they stung her, and made her bad. And how she tried to get back again to her own dear homo, but was so ill that she had not strength enough to fly over the wall. And how the birds came and laughed at her, and told her that it was too late now, and she would never be able to go back any more, and persuaded her to eat again of the fruits, and drink of the waters; and she did so, and was more miserable than ever afterwards, and tried again to get away; but the birds, when they saw it, flew at her, and pulled out her feathers, and pecked her with their beaks, and hurt her very much. And how one day, when there were no birds near her, she made a desperate effort, and got to the top of the wall, and flew down into her own dear, once happy garden; but she was so weak, that it took her a long time to get to the cherry-tree. And how, when she came there, after all, she saw that the old nest was broken up, and that her father and mother were gone. And how she sank down on the ground, and, after a little while, saw an old bird flutter to the tree, with feeble wing; and she looked at her, and saw it was her mother—but, oh! how changed! And her mother saw her, and knew her, and came to her, and told her that her father was dead (she did not say so, but Chirpy knew he had died of grief); yet she did not reproach her, but spoke lovingly to her, and took her under her wing. And how poor Chirpy looked up into her face, and nestled in her bosom, and—died! And when the tale was finished, Mary would burst into tears, and cling to her mother, and say she would never, never leave her. And Mrs. Atherton would press a kiss upon her fair forehead, and tell her some more cheerful story, or give her a commission to run and pick some blackberries or a nosegay, and she would be happy, and laughing, and bright-eyed again.
Years passed away, and Mary was seventeen—that magic age whoso very touch is beauty. Ordinary looking, indeed, must be the girl who is not lovely, with its freshness and bloom upon.her cheek; sour, indeed, the temper which its bright hopes and fancies do not sweeten. But, oh! how lovely was Mary Atherton! She had not her mother’s regular and perfect features; hers was not a face to be carved in marble, it was more fit for a picture—bright, sunny picture. But no! those beautiful blue eyes, those golden tresses, that graceful form, that springing step, were neither for a statue nor a painting. They were things to be imagined—to be dreamt of—to float through the mind on a summer’s day, whilst lying half-asleep amongst the blooming heather or the fragrant new-mown hay. And her sweet voice—perhaps even her greatest personal charm—now soft and low, now merry, clear, and ringing, how could they portray that? In character and disposition, as in person, she was of
