She opened the window, and looked out over the landscape. There was a most lovely rainbow in the skies. It arched over a broad heaven, and the green earth beneath it sent up a grateful fragrance, and all the flowers looked up lovingly at the rainbow, and gave it smile for smile. Water-drops twinkled like stars among the green leaves of the gently waving trees; and, as the sunbeams glistened on the gilt vane of the distant church-spire, it gleamed in the air like a tongue of golden flame. What a chirping from the green boughs and the hedge-rows! The lark in the sky sent messages of love down to the linnet in the brushwood, and the robin on the thorn. The breeze sprung up, and sang through the leafy boughs of the Poplar and the Elm, and light and music mingled together, as if nature had clustered her beauties and joys for a service of thanksgiving. Far and wide, and upward, spread the various melody. It seemed as if every voice had wings, fluttering with delight, and bearing away into the blue air the silent gratitude of the flowers, and the prayers of all beautiful though voiceless things. Mary sat at the window, and with cheek resting on her hand, she looked over the beautiful scene. The beauty-drops all around trickled to the very roots of her affections; her heart throbbed, her eyes glistened, and the breathing of her bosom heaved it as gently as if the waves of some soft music-stream were flowing there. She saw that all was good—storm and calm, rain and sunshine, summer and winter—all was good; and her young spirit hallowed it, and rested in a sabbath of calm. Presently the rainbow melted away, the clouds fell to the horizon, and the sun spread his bright beams over a broad, blue sky. Mary put on her little straw-hat, and went down into the garden. Near the steps was a large flower-pot, with a rose-tree in it. It was half-blown; the rain-drops were glistening in its leaves; its fragrance was passing into the air, and making it delicious and sweet; its blushing tints were exquisitely lovely; the mere looking at the rainbow seemed to have increased its beauty. Mary took the flower in her hand—smelled it—kissed its leaves—and then a pulse of music throbbed at her heart, and the little maiden sang:— “I dream of my Rose when the spirits of light Dance on the beautiful margins of night, And the mists of the morning unclose; When at murmuring eve, the angel of rest Foldeth us lovingly close to her breast, Then I think of my own pretty Rose. Beautiful world, that so well can impart The lessons of loveliness fit for the heart! A stream of sweet tenderness flows From bird and from flower—from streamlet and sky— From beauty below and from beauty on high, And the smiles of my own pretty Rose.” “Ah! Miss Mary!” said a voice, “I am always glad to hear you sing, and particularly such a happy, thankful song as that.”