Over those hills, and through the woods, and by the sandy shores of our beautiful lake, I was once a frequent wanderer, and with me invariably in all those rovings, was a child of somewhere near my own age, to whom, good reader, you may now consider yourself introduced. When the week, with its disappointments, and hopes and joys has passed, and Saturday afternoon, the child’s holyday the world over, comes round again, how often my thoughts have turned back to her, and to the time when _we_ also were young; oh, how much of meaning there is in that word, _youth_! But looking back into the past is not an over-pleasant business at any time. There are very many reasons why people, for the most part, dread the rolling up of that curtain within which lies buried much of destroyed confidence, and happiness that died of fearful wounds; but I am willing to trespass on my own feelings at this present, that you may know something of Lily Reeve. People said she was a genius. They said rightly—she was. And to complete the interest attachable to her therefor, Lily was poor—_very_ poor, and had been all the days of her life. When the Reeve family moved among us they had no acquaintance or relative in our village—and their circumstances and business were not such as attached any importance or attracted any notice to them. Had it not been for Lily they would probably have remained long enough in our midst, unknown and uncared for. The mother was a middle-aged woman, a widow; of the children I knew not much, save that with much appropriateness their name might have been “legion.” Lily was the eldest child—not beautiful—and far from being even interesting, personally. Why her parents had bestowed on her so decided a name as Lily was always a mystery—for very far from a resemblance, even the slightest, to that graceful flower, was she. Neither was she a brunette, but of complexion rather dark, hair _very_ black, and always curled, which gave her a decidedly Mrs. Hemanish look at times. Her features were irregular—oh, certainly, she was _far_ from beautiful, and yet there was much sweetness of expression in the mouth, and much of vigor and determination perceivable in her dark eyes. It was a good many years ago, but I remember distinctly the first time I ever saw Lily. With a number of juveniles I was returning from a _very_ long walk—all our foot-jaunts were long in those days—when, on passing by an old-fashioned frame-house, brown with age, and poor and disconsolate in its outward appearance, one of the group said, “Let’s go into that house; there’s a girl living there who paints.” And we went in. One of the more confident of our number said to the woman who received us, “Will you show us some of the pictures your daughter has painted?”