He smiled the least in the world, and said,-- "Had I been asked, instead of being the asker, I should have made answer, 'She's a Japan rose.'" "Oh, Aaron, no fragrance! that's not complimentary." "Crush the leaves of heliotrope in the cup, Anna." I did not understand what he meant, then; perhaps I do not now: some figure of speech from the Orient, I fancy, with a glow of meaning about it visible only to poetic vision. I lost my way, blinded in seeking to penetrate the mystery, and was brought back to Redleaf by two welcome events: the cup Chloe brought, and the letter Aaron gave, with a beseeching of pardon for having forgotten to give it in the morning. I read my letter, interluding it with little commas of sipping at the cup. It was from my father, very brief, but somewhat stirring. Here it lies before me now. "My MYRTLE-VINE,-- "I want you at home. I am well; but that is no reason why I should not need your greenness on my walls. Come home, dear child, on the morrow. Do not fail me. You never have; 't would be cruel now, when spring is coming, the very time of hope. Waitingly, "Your father, "JULIUS PERCIVAL." "What puts you in such a turmoil, Anna?" Aaron asked. "What has happened at home?" I thought he had been duly attending to the state of his own inward hopes and fears, instead of mine. Slightly disconcerted by his gray eyes, the very same that disturb turbulent boys in church-time, I turned away from them, went to the door, and leaning against the side thereof, looking the while up at the sky, I answered,-- "I'm going home on the morrow, Aaron." "Going home?" he repeated, as if the words had borne an uncertain import. "Pray tell me, what has occurred?" "It pleases my father to have me there. He gives no reason." "What will Sophie say? She's hardly seen you since you came, you've been so usefully employed. I hope you have not hurt yourself. I wish you were going back with brighter color in your cheeks." "There is something in Nature besides mere coloring," I said, and looked for the answer. It was better than I thought to get. "What?" he asked. "Two things, Aaron,--conception and form." Aaron mused awhile. "What gave you the idea?" he asked, his musing over. "Sermons in granite," I answered; and I looked at the sunshine, the afternoon radiance that fell soothingly into the winter-wearied grass lying in the graveyard, waiting like souls for the warmth of love to enlife them. Aaron said,-- "Sandstone and limestone you mean, Anna." "Oh, no,--granite. I mean the Axtells." "I'm glad you've found anything comprehensible enough to call a sermon in them," he answered. "Ill, dying, and in affliction, they are impenetrable to me." And Aaron turned away and went in. LEAMINGTON SPA. MY DEAR EDITOR,--