I was passing through a grove of budding maple trees, thinking of you, of “Graham”—that is, wondering what in all the world I could find to say, that you would care to hear; a desperate mood for one to be in, certes—when my meditations were disturbed by the voice of a creature which came from the heights above, chirping out, not softly, not musically, but in a shrieking tone, as though bent on vociferous disputation with somebody, “Katy _did_.” The spirit of opposition roused within me as I heard that cry; I was about to deny the assertion point blank, when the sweet, tiny voice of another insect, answered distinctly, “she didn’t.” It was like the acceptance of a challenge in effect; forthwith the first speaker began again, with increased energy, “Katy did! Katy did—she did! she did! she did!” But still the milder voice, quite undismayed, replied valiantly, and with a solemn air of undoubtable truth, “She didn’t.” The neighboring spirits were now all aroused; never did mortal before hear such a rush of sound as burst upon me then! A perfect flood of abuse gushed from one throat, while distinct and dignified denial met it all in reply. Asseverations numberless, and uncharitable defamation of one, powerless now to vindicate herself, followed. With wonder and with _patience_ I listened to the end; oh, loveliest reader, will you do so likewise? Here is the substance of that most strange _conversasionne_. * * * * * Little Kitty Clover was the only child of her widowed father—“a fine old English gentleman, all of the olden time;” she was a blooming fairy of a girl, spoiled, of course, and worshiped, too—a very “household goddess.” Miserably educated had the young thing been; for—only think of it!—at sixteen years of age, she was as wild and free in spirit as a chamois, as brave as a chamois-hunter, and through the unpardonable neglect of those who had the care of her, she had been taught nothing whatever of sorrow, save the Dictionary definition—and _that_ she could scarcely comprehend. At this age she was still under the care, or rather in the companionship, of a governess, Lucy Freer, a lady also young, indeed but two years older than her pupil; but _she_ was a dignified, commanding personage, (and thus differed very much from Kitty;) a silent, sad, but remarkably handsome girl, who sometimes wept, and never laughed, (which was strange, for one would have thought that the spirit of mirth dwelling in Kitty was of an absolutely infectious nature;) but Lucy had the sweetest of smiles when she was pleased or happy, and that smile, with her unvarying goodness and talent, secured from the first, the warm love of her pupil.