At last he came; then there was a pause before the woman of the house was at liberty to take it upstairs. Then Libbie saw the little face flush up into a bright colour, the feeble hands tremble with delighted eagerness, the head bent down to try and make out the writing (beyond his power, poor lad, to read), the rapturous turning round of the cage in order to see the canary in every point of view, head, tail, wings, and feet; an intention in which Jupiter, in his uneasiness at being again among strangers, did not second, for he hopped round so, as continually to present a full front to the boy. It was a source of never wearying delight to the little fellow, till daylight closed in; he evidently forgot to wonder who had sent it him, in his gladness at his possession of such a treasure; and when the shadow of his mother darkened on the blind, and the bird had been exhibited, Libbie saw her do what, with all her tenderness, seemed rarely to have entered into her thoughts—she bent down and kissed her boy, in a mother’s sympathy with the joy of her child. The canary was placed for the night between the little bed and window; and when Libbie rose once, to take her accustomed peep, she saw the little arm put fondly round the cage, as if embracing his new treasure even in his sleep. How Jupiter slept this first night is quite another thing. So ended the first day in Libbie’s three eras in last year. ERA II. WHITSUNTIDE. The brightest, fullest daylight poured down into No. 2, —— Court, Albemarle Street, and the heat, even at the early hour of five, as at the noontide on the June days of many years past. The court seemed alive, and merry with voices and laughter. The bedroom windows were open wide, and had been so all night, on account of the heat; and every now and then you might see a head and a pair of shoulders, simply encased in shirt sleeves, popped out, and you might hear the inquiry passed from one to the other,—“Well, Jack, and where art thee bound for?” “Dunham!” “Why, what an old-fashioned chap thou be’st. Thy grandad afore thee went to Dunham: but thou wert always a slow coach. I’m off to Alderley,—me and my missis.” “Ay, that’s because there’s only thee and thy missis. Wait till thou hast gotten four childer, like me, and thou’lt be glad enough to take ’em to Dunham, oud-fashioned way, for fourpence apiece.” “I’d still go to Alderley; I’d not be bothered with my children; they should keep house at home.” A pair of hands, the person to whom they belonged invisible, boxed his ears on this last speech, in a very spirited, though playful, manner, and the neighbours all laughed at the surprised look of the speaker, at this assault from an unseen foe. The man who had been holding conversation with him cried out,—