“Have a care, Frank, or some one of these same moonlight nights your imagination will carry you off _vi et armis_.” “Never fear, Ed. But here is my home. My father had taste, had he not?” “All around is the perfection of taste. Your father must have spent much of his time in planning such a Paradise.” Francis made no reply; but with all the impetuosity of his ardent nature rushed into the house. When Edward, left to the guidance of a servant, entered the hall, he found a fair-haired girl clasped to his cousin’s heart—a mild-eyed matron, he knew was Frank’s mother, so strongly did she resemble him, looking love and joy upon him. That was a happy family assembled at Beverly Park. Within a week from the arrival of its heir, the many chambers of the old Hall were nearly filled with friends and relatives of the Beverlys, who had come to spend the winter with them. So mirth was the order of the day at Beverly Park. “Cousin Ed,” said Frank, one sunny morning, “you and Clara seem so happy in each other, and have so much to say, there is not room for me to put in a word: I see I am _un de trop_. Mamma is reading, I cannot talk with her; Kate and George are at that everlasting chess-board; the Miss Linwoods and the rest of our party are out riding, so poor I have nothing to do, nor no one to talk with.” “A sad case, brother mine,” said Clara, laughing. “I’ll be revenged some way. I’ll go out on an exploring expedition, all alone. _Au revoir!_” . . . . Upon the grass-green banks of a flower-fringed, dancing stream, a little child, of four bright summer suns, was playing with the pebbles at its edge. She had the “_curlingest_” little head of gold-brown hair in the world. Her form was faultless: her eyes—warm, soft hazel. As the child threw the shining pebbles into the water, and laughed with delight to see the bubbles and dimples she created, the step of a man sounded on the mossy sward. The child looked up but evinced no fear. “Come here, pretty one.” The child came bounding toward him, and peered up into his face so winningly, that he caught her up in his arms, and kissed her young brown eyes, and fair round cheek, until she put her little hand upon his mouth and told him he was naughty. “What is your name, little one?” “Nina: What is yours?” “Frank,” replied the other smiling. “What is your mother’s name, pretty Nina?” “Mamma. What is yours?” “What is her other name beside mamma?” “Papa calls her Agnes,” lisped the child. “_Agneth_,” said the man; “and what, pretty one, is thy father’s name?” “Tell me the name of yours first.” “I have no papa, little one.” “No papa!” “None, little Nina; he is dead.” “Dead! What does that mean?” “Nina, where do you live?” “My papa’s name is William: now tell me what dead means.” “You could not understand me, dear child, if I were to tell you; show me where you live and I will come and explain it all for you.”