“I am sure it would be a kindness to myself,” said Harry, brightening. And he took down their address in a little pocket-book, that his sister Emily had given him as a keep-sake; and I promised to write to Mrs. Welsh, and prepare her to expect him. “I know a clever artist, too,” said I; “a sensible, friendly man, with a nice little wife. They, also, are quiet people; but yet they sometimes receive, beneath their unassuming roof, noteworthy persons, whom one would like to have a glimpse of.” “Why, Mrs. Cheerlove, that promises still better than the other! Will you write to them too?” “I will, Harry. And now I believe you know the extent of what little I can do for you.” “I call it much, not little,” said he, gratefully; and the rest of our conversation was very cheerful. * * * * * I have had a small tea-party, of very small people—their ages ranging from five to twelve. Two Hopes, two Bretts, and three Honeys. I took Mary Brett into my confidence, and gave her half-a-crown to lay out to the best advantage for the tea-table; and it was astonishing to see the variety of little paper bags she brought back. This having been _her_ treat, Louisa Hope’s was that of being tea-maker, in which she acquitted herself admirably. All talked at once; and, as I had expected as much, I was very glad no grown-up person was present to compel a check to it, for it was not of the smallest annoyance to myself. After tea, I proposed that Mary Brett should be blindfolded, and put in the corner, while Phillis cleared the table, and then, still blindfolded, come forth and tell us a fable of her own making. The idea was applauded; and the fable was a very fair one, to this effect:— “A cuckoo, observing a thrush busy making her nest, contemptuously remarked—‘It is easy enough to stick a few bits of wool and straw together in that way.’—‘It may be very easy for you to _say_ so,’ replied the thrush, after dropping a dead leaf from her beak, ‘but if you were industrious enough to try yourself, instead of using other people’s nests, you would find the difference.’ “‘_Moral._—People who have never made a book, a fable, or shirt, or anything, don’t know how hard it is till they have tried.’” Helen Brett, fired with the desire of emulation, immediately declared _she_ would make the next; but I made them all file in silence round Mary, who, touched by each in turn, said—“Not you,”—“Not you,”—“Not you;” and at length—“_You_ shall be the next,” catching little Gertrude by the wrist. Gertrude’s effusion was about as witless as might have been expected. “A bear—no, a tiger,—no, a bear met a lion one day, and said—‘What are you going to have for dinner?’ The lion said—the lion said—O dear, I don’t know what he said!”