Mr. Leslie rose, and crossed the room to examine the drawing; he did not lay it aside, but carried it back to his seat, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Sibyl's color rose, but she turned with marked interest towards Graham Marr, and listened to his remarks with a bright smile. "The next design," Hugh read, "requires no explanation. It is the strong, broad, long palm, and strong, long, shapely fingers of the well-balanced, resolute man, who will fight the battle of life with all his strength, and never give up until it is won. In short, it is--" "Mr. Leslie!" said the audience, as the illustration was held up for inspection. Sibyl's eyes brightened as she saw the life-like picture, but she sat silent as the others poured forth criticisms and comments. "Go on, Hugh!" said Mr. Leslie laughing; "this is quite an ordeal, I find." "The next design," read Hugh, "shows all the faults of nature's worst handiwork. (No pun intended.) A scraggy little paw, brown, knotted and shapeless; of course every one will know that it is--" "Bessie!" cried the laughing audience, as two ridiculous caricatures of Bessie's little brown hands came into view. "Last of all, I present the fat-simile of a perfect hand. Our other designs have been youthful, but this one has borne the burden and heat of the day. Originally beautiful and shapely, it is now worn with labor for others; it has given to the poor, it has tended the sick, it has guarded the young, and soothed the afflicted. It is,--I am sure you will recognize it,--" "Aunt Faith!"--"Mrs. Sheldon!" cried the company, as the last drawing was displayed. "Bravo, Bessie!" said Tom; "your contribution is the best so far." When the buzz of conversation had subsided, Hugh took another paper from the basket. "The next contribution is poetical," he said; "it is entitled:-- 'A JUNE RHAPSODY. The lovely month of June has come, The sweetest of the year,-- (I've heard this somewhere;--never mind;) The meadows green and sear;-- Sear's not the word; there's something wrong,-- I fear my muse will drop The fire of genius' flowing song, And so I'd better stop! ROSE SAXON.'" A general laugh followed this effusion, and no one joined in it more heartily than the authoress, a bright little brunette with sparkling eyes, in whose expression merriment predominated. "Our next manuscript seems to be of a serious nature," said Hugh; "it treats of a solemn subject, and I beg you to give it your attentive consideration:-- 'BOYS.