“I don’t know,” said Lily, thoughtfully, “perhaps they are nearer right than I dare to think them—but I cannot explain it to you. I am never satisfied with any thing I do. My verses always sound so rough when compared with the melody in my brain—and my pictures, when I begin them, my fingers almost fly, I think I will surpass myself—and when they are finished, they always look so rude and rough, that I am tempted often to burn them every one.” “Never mind,” said I, confidently, “you will see the day yet when all will be brighter to you—and you know the teacher says every day ‘practice makes perfect;’ and he always looks at you when he says it—you ought to have learned that by this time.” “I’ll learn it now from you,” said Lily; “we’ll go now to the woods, I want to get some flowers to take to mother.” Just beyond the woods to which we then bent our steps, there was a large field, in the upper portion of which, early in the season, we always found multitudes of purple flowers and white lilies; our first business that night was to fill our aprons with these treasures, and then we went into the woods, and sat down by a stream in a most romantic place, and began to arrange our huge bunches of flowers. Lily made hers into small bouquets, one for each of her family, while I twined mine into a wreath, and laid it on her head. But soon the fast increasing shade in the woods warned us it was time to be returning home. The thought of the obligation she was about to incur evidently still troubled my companion’s mind, for she spoke but little, and her words, when she did speak, were desponding, and even the bright flowers with which her hands were filled, failed to attract her usual attention, or awaken the delight they were wont to. We were about crossing the stile that was placed at the entrance of the wood, when Lily suddenly flung the beautiful green moss she had gathered in a damp place, with violence from the bosom of her dress, where she had laid it. And when I looked with amazement at the excited girl, she exclaimed, “Look there! I had a snake in my bosom!” Truly enough, there was a tiny, striped, infant snake, creeping out leisurely from the bunch of moss she had flung upon the ground. A thought darted through my mind—I grasped her arm and said, “You shall hear the moral of this before you go a step further, Lily Reeve. I’m no genius, but I’ll teach you a plain lesson. You have thrown the snake away from you; don’t, don’t ever take it back again. Don’t doubt those who mean to do you kindness; only just do what nature intended you should, and all who know you will be satisfied! When you come to be very famous, the people who help you now will think you did them a favor in letting them aid you. Mother says perseverance will work wonders, and I believe it—_you_ can prove it.” When I had finished my oration, I stood somewhat astonished at my own audacity, but after a moment’s silence Lily said,