It was years ago when we first became acquainted with Lieutenant Heathcote, an old half-pay officer who resided with his young grand-daughter in a tiny cottage. It was a very humble place, for they were poor; but it was extremely pretty, and there were many comforts, even elegances, to be found in the small rooms. The old gentleman delighted in cultivating the garden; the window of the sitting-room opened on it, and beneath this window, grew the choicest roses and pinks, so that the atmosphere of the apartment was in summer laden with their fragrance. The furniture was poor enough. Mrs. ---- of ---- Square would have said with a genteel sneer, that "all the room contained was not worth five sovereigns." To her--no! but to the simple hearted inmates of the cottage every chair and table was dear from long association, and they would not have exchanged them for all the grandeur of Mrs. ----'s drawing-room suite, albeit her chairs were of inlaid rosewood, and cost six guineas apiece. If you went into that little humbly-furnished parlor about four o'clock on a summer's afternoon, you would find Lieutenant Heathcote seated in his easy chair (wheeled by careful hands to the precise angle of the window that he liked), his spectacles on, and the broad sheet of the newspaper spread before him. Occasionally he puts down the newspaper for awhile, and then his eyes rove restlessly about the room, till at length they light on the figure of his unconscious grand-daughter. Once there, they stay a good while, and when they turn to the newspaper again, there is a serene light in them, as though what they had seen had blessed them. Yet an ordinary gazer would have found little or nothing attractive in the appearance of Rose Heathcote, for she was but a homely, innocent-looking girl, such as we meet with every day of our lives. Her eyes were neither "darkly blue," nor "densely black," her tresses neither golden, nor redundant. She had, to be sure, a sufficient quantity of dark brown hair, which was very soft and pleasant to touch, her grandfather thought, when he placed his hand caressingly on her head, as he loved to do: and this hair was always prettily arranged--braided over her forehead in front, and twisted into a thick knot behind--a fashion which certainly showed to advantage the graceful form of her head, the solitary beauty, speaking critically, which the young girl possessed. However, Lieutenant Heathcote thought his little Rose the prettiest girl in the world. Eyes that look with love, lend beauty to what they gaze on. And no one who knew Rose as she was in her home, could fail to love her.