My happiest moments were those spent in that grassy nook at the end of our garden, to which I have already alluded. A group of dark pine-trees, growing on the very edge of the cliff, sheltered it from the strength of the breeze; close by began a steep path, winding away to the shore, and to which a wooden gate, never locked, gave access. But more blest than ever was Eve in her garden,--for in mine grew no forbidden fruit,--I could spend there an entire day, and forget that only this easy barrier stood between me and liberty. My father, seeing how much I liked this spot, had caused a low wooden bench to be placed for me beneath the pine- trees. In the fine weather my delight was to lie there, and to read and dream away whole hours, or to gaze on the clear prospect of the beach below, and, beyond it, on that solemn vastness of sea and sky which, in its sublimity and infinitude, so far surpasses the sights of earth. It was thus, I remember, that I spent one mild and hazy autumn afternoon, reading, for the twentieth time, the touching story of Pracovia Loupouloff--not the Elizabeth of Madame Cottin, but the real and far more pathetic heroine,--and for the twentieth time, too, thinking with a sort of jealousy and regret, that I was sure I could do quite as much for my father if he were only an exile, when he came and sat down by me. He was going out, and, as usual, would not leave home without giving me a kiss. As he took me on his knee, he saw the book lying open on the bench; he looked at me wistfully, and said with a sigh-- "I wish you would not read so much, my darling. You are always at the books. I have just found my History of Medicine open: what could you want with that?" "I was reading about the circulation of the blood." "Well, who discovered it?" "William Harvey--I wish he had not." "Why so?" asked my father, looking surprised. "Because _you_ would," I replied, passing my arms around his neck, and laying my cheek close to his. He smiled, kissed my forehead, rose to go, took a few steps, came back, and, stooping over me as I lay on the bench, he pressed his lips to mine with lingering tenderness, then left me. I saw him enter the house. I heard him depart, and I even caught a glimpse of him and his grey mare as he rode up the steep path leading to Ryde. I looked and listened long after he had vanished and the tramp of the horse had ceased. Then turning once more towards the sea, I idly watched a fisherman's boat slowly fading away in the grey horizon, and thought all the time what a great man my father might hare been, if William Harvey had not unfortunately discovered the circulation of the blood two hundred years before. I lay there, dreaming the whole noon away, until Sarah came down the garden path in quest of me, and, in her mournful voice, observed-- "Miss Margaret, _will_ you come in to tea?" "No," I said coolly, "I won't yet."