“But if it be really beautiful, and pleases you, the money is _not_ wasted,” replied Ernest; “though it certainly is not agreeable to be cheated. Look at this ivory head to my cane! It is a bust of Hebe, which I bought for a trifle, yesterday. But small as is the market value, its beauty is a perpetual delight to me. If it be not an antique, it deserves to be. It troubles me that I cannot find the artist, and pay him more than I gave for it. Perhaps he is poor, and has not yet made a name for himself; but whoever he may be, a spark of the divine fire is certainly in him. Observe the beautiful swell of the breast, and the graceful turn of the head!” “Yes, it is a pretty thing,” rejoined Alfred, half contemptously. “But I am too much vexed with that knave who sold me the statue, to go into raptures about the head of a cane just now. What makes it more provoking is, that Mr. Duncan purchased a _real_ antique last year, for less money than I threw away on this modern thing.” Having in vain tried to impart his own sunny humour, Ernest bade him adieu, and returned to his humble lodgings, out of the city. As he lingered in the orange-groves, listening to the nightingales, he thought to himself, “I wish that charming little fairy, who came to me in my boyish dream, would touch Alfred with her wand; for the purse the old gnome gave him seems to bring him little joy.” He happened to look up at the moment, and there, close by his hand, was Touchu balancing herself tip-toe on an orange-bud. She had the same luminous, loving eyes, the same prismatic robe, and the same sunny gleam on her hair. She smiled as she said, “Then you do not repent your early choice, though I could not give you a purse full of money?” “Oh, no indeed,” replied he. “Thou hast been the brightest blessing of my life.” She kissed his eyes, and, waving her wand over him, said affectionately, “Take then the best gift I have to offer. When thou art an old man, thou shalt still remain, to the last, a simple, happy child.” THE BROTHER AND SISTER. But show me, on thy flowery breast, Earth, where thy _nameless_ martyrs rest! The thousands, who, uncheered by praise, Have made one offering of their days. MRS. HEMANS. “Hurra!” exclaimed John Golding to his sister Esther. “See what Mr. Brown has bought with Biddy’s eggs!” The boy’s eyes sparkled, and his hands trembled with delight, while Esther’s more serious countenance lighted up with a quick smile.