IT is a bright May day, and the home-garden at Ayr is as bright as the season. Upon the fresh soft breeze the falling petals of the apple blossoms sweep down, fluttering like snowflakes to the ground; and the great pear tree trained against the wall is flushed to the extremity of every bough, and has its leaves smothered in its wealth of bloom. By the door here, in the sunshine, is the chair in which Alexander Muir presides over his little flock of workers, and a book held open by his spectacles still rests upon it; but the old man himself is not here. Neither are the girls here, you would say at the first glance; but look closer into the shady corners, and listen only five minutes--it is all you need to discover your mistake. There are pleasant sounds in the air; softened young voices and light-hearted laughter; and at the foot of Uncle Sandy’s chair lies a heap of muslin, ballasted with stones, to keep it safe and preserve it from being blown away; for Beatie and her sisterhood are idle, extremely idle, and idle even, it must be confessed, is Rose, the viceroy, to whom Uncle Sandy has delegated his charge. They are whispering together, little groups of bright heads, which here and there, the sunshine, stretching over the boughs of the great plane tree, finds out and seizes on, tracing a single curl or braid of hair with delicate gold, and throwing wavy shadows over brow and face. They are dispersed in all the corners of the garden; but here, leaning against the trunk of the plane tree, flushed with natural gratification, confidential and yet dignified, stands Rose Muir, the centre of the most important group. Once these girls were little Rosie’s playmates; now, though Rose is not proud, she feels no less than they do, that there is a difference, and quite acquiesces when they call her Miss Rose, and are respectful as well as friendly. She is standing, with a little of a patroness air, listening while Mary Burness tells of Maggie Crawford’s “lad,” and Maggie retaliates by a rumour that Mary is to be “cried” in the kirk the very next Sabbath day. Rose laughs a little, blushes a little, and looks so happy and light-hearted, that you perceive at once she could not tell you why--but that there is some unconscious reason of still greater might than the family good fortune which brings back the natural joy so freshly to her heart. By this open window you hear the sound of voices graver and less youthful. Within, with her hand wandering among the old man’s books, sits Martha Muir. Her other hand holds a piece of her accustomed work, but it lies on her knee listlessly; and with the unconsciousness of pre-occupation she turns over and over the books upon the window-shelf--old familiar books, friends which nurtured and strengthened her own youth--but her hand wanders over them as though they were strangers, and she could not tell you what she looks at with those fixed eyes.