On New Year’s day, the offerings, enclosed in one box, were presented by the good grandfather. The first was a golden apple, which opened and revealed on one side an exquisitely neat watch, surrounded by a garland tastefully wrought in rich damaskeening of steel and gold; on the other side was a rose intertwined with forget-me-nots, very perfectly done in mosaic. When the stem of the apple was turned, a favourite little tune of Rosabella’s sounded from within. “This is surely Florien’s,” thought she; and she looked for the other gift with less interest. It was an elegant little gold watch, with a Persian landscape, a gazelle and birds of Paradise beautifully engraved on the back. When a spring was touched, the watch opened, a little circular plate of gold slid away, and up came a beautiful rose, round which a jewelled bee buzzed audibly. On the edge of the golden circle below were the words _Rosa bella_ in ultramarine enamel. When another spring was touched, the rose went away, and the same melody that sounded from the heart of the golden apple seemed to be played by fairies on tinkling dew-drops. It paused a moment, and then struck up a lively dance. The circular plate again rolled away, and up sprung an inch-tall opera-dancer, with enamelled scarf, and a very small diamond on her brow. Leaping and whirling on an almost invisible thread of gold, she kept perfect time to the music, and turned her scarf most gracefully. Rosabella drew a long breath, and a roseate tinge mantled her beautiful face, as she met her grandfather’s gaze fixed lovingly upon her. She thought to herself, “There is no doubt now which is Florien’s;” but she said aloud, “They are both very beautiful; are they not, dear grandfather? I am not worthy that so much pains should be taken to please me.” The old man smiled upon her, and fondly patted the luxuriant brown hair, which shone like threads of amber in the sun. “Which dost thou think _most_ beautiful?” said he. She evaded the question, by asking, “Which do _you_?” “I will tell thee when thou hast decided,” answered he. She twisted and untwisted the strings of her boddice, and said she was afraid she should not be impartial. “Why not?” he inquired. She looked down bashfully, and murmured, in a very low voice, “Because I can easily guess which is Florien’s.” “Ah, ha,” exclaimed the kind old man; and he playfully chucked her under the chin, as he added, “Then I suppose I shall offend thee when I give a verdict for the bee and the opera-dancer?” She looked up blushing, and her large serious brown eyes had for a moment a comic expression, as she said, “I shall do the same.” Never were disciples of the beautiful placed in circumstances more favourable to the development of poetic souls. The cottage of Antoine Breguet was