At the same hour, Alfred walked in his conservatory among groves of fragrant Geraniums and richly-flowering Cactuses. He smoked a cigar, and glanced listlessly from his embroidered slippers to the marble pavement without taking notice of the costly flowers. The gardener, who was watering a group of Japonicas, remarked, “This is a fine specimen that has opened to-day. Will you have the goodness to look at it, sir?” He paused in his walk a moment, and looked at a pure white blossom, with the faintest roseate blush in the centre. “It _ought_ to be handsome,” said he. “The _price_ was high enough. But after all the money I have expended, horticulturists declare that Mr. Duncan’s Japonicas excel mine. It’s provoking to be outdone.” The old gnome stood behind one of the plants, and shrugged his shoulders and grinned. Without perceiving his presence, Alfred muttered to himself, “Utouch promised my flowers should be unequalled in rarity and beauty.” “That was last year,” croaked a small voice, which he at once recognized. “Last year!” retorted Alfred, mocking his tone. “Am I then to be always _toiling_ after what I never _keep_? That’s precious comfort, you provoking imp!” A retreating laugh was heard under the pavement, as the rich man threw his cigar away, exclaiming impatiently, “The devil take the Japonicas! what do I care? they’re not worth fretting about.” * * * * * Weeks passed and brought the returning seventh day of rest. The little child, who caused homemade rainbows to flicker over the father’s poem, lay very ill, and the anxious parents feared that this beautiful vision of innocence might soon pass away from the earth. The shadows of a Madeira-vine now and then waved across the window, and the chamber was filled with the delicate perfume of its blossoms. No sound broke the Sabbath stillness, except the little bird in the Althea bush, whose tones were sad as the voice of memory. The child heard it, and sighed unconsciously, as he put his little feverish hand within his mother’s, and said, “Please sing me a hymn, dear mother.” With a soft, clear voice, subdued by her depth of feeling, she sang Schubert’s Ave Maria. Manifold and wonderful are the intertwining influences in the world of spirits! What was it that touched the little bird’s heart, and uttered itself in such plaintive cadences? They made the child sigh for a hymn; and bird and child together woke Schubert’s prayerful echoes in the mother’s bosom. And now from the soul of the composer in that far-off German land, the spirit of devotion comes to the father, wafted on the wings of that beautiful music. Ernest bowed his head reverently, and sank kneeling by the bed-side. While he listened thus, Touchu glided softly into his bosom and laid her wand upon his heart. When the sweet beseeching melody had ceased, Ernest pressed the hand of the singer to his lip, and remained awhile in silence. Then the strong necessity of