They were well disposed towards each other and towards the world; inclined to enjoy life, and suited to its enjoyment. But somehow, pretty much like some mass of complicated machinery, which by default of some small piece of mechanism--a spring, a screw, or a pinion the more-- stands idle and inert,--all its force useless, all its power unused, they had no pursuit,--did nothing. Mrs. Morris was exactly the motive power wanting; and by her agency interests sprang up, occupations were created, pleasures invented. Without bustle, without even excitement, the dull routine of the day grew animate; the hours sped glibly along. Little Clara, too, was no small aid to this change. In the quiet monotony of a grave household a child's influence is magical. As the sight of a butterfly out at sea brings up thoughts of shady alleys and woodbine-covered windows, of “the grass and the flowers among the grass,” so will a child's light step and merry voice throw a whole flood of sunny associations over the sad-colored quietude of some old house. Clara was every one's companion and everywhere,--with Charles as he fished, with May Leslie in the flower-garden, with old Sir William in the orangery, or looking over pictures beside him in the long-galleried library. Mrs. Morris herself was yet too great an invalid for an active life. Her chair would be wheeled out into the lawn, under the shade of an immense weeping-ash, and there, during the day, as to some “general staff,” came all the “reports” of what was doing each morning. Newspapers and books would be littered about her, and even letters brought her to read, from dear friends, with whose names conversation had made her familiar. A portion of time was, however, reserved for Clara's lessons, which no plan or project was ever suffered to invade. It may seem a somewhat dreary invitation if we ask our readers to assist at one of these mornings. Pinnock and Mrs. Barbauld and Mangnall are, perhaps, not the company to their taste, nor will they care to cast up multiplications, or stumble through the blotted French exercise. Well, we can only pledge ourselves not to exaggerate the infliction of these evils. And now to our task. It is about eleven o'clock of a fine summer's day, in Italy; Mrs. Morris sits at her embroidery-frame, under the long-branched willow; Clara, at a table near, is drawing, her long silky curls falling over the paper, and even interfering with her work, as is shown by an impatient toss of her head, or even a hastier gesture, as with her hands she flings them back upon her neck. “It was to Charley I said it, mamma,” said she, without lifting her head, and went on with her work. “Have I not told you, already, to call him Mr. Charles Heathcote, or Mr. Heathcote, Clara?” “But he says he won't have it.” “What an expression,--'won't have it'!” “Well, I know,” cried she, with impatience; and then laughingly said, “I 've forgot, in a hurry, old dear Lindley Murray.”