“I’ll get my book,” said Joe, rising with his usual prompt obedience, rather glad to get his mind back to safer and firmer ground. “I’ll say a good long one, grandma, to make up.” “That’s my good boy.” So the lesson was gone through with great earnestness, and with the most entire satisfaction on both sides; for Joe was as quick at his book as with his queer fancies that made him so pleasant a companion to the old lady. “There’s somebody coming up stairs,” said Joe, as he closed his book after receiving a kiss of approval. “Oh! it’s Anna,” he added, as the door opened, and the girl entered. “Why, I didn’t expect you home so soon, dear,” said the old lady. “I brought the work to do it here,” she answered, laying her bundle on the table. “I am glad of that; it’s always pleasant to have you at home.” “But grandma wasn’t lonesome,” added Joe, hastily. “We have had one of our good old talks, haven’t we, grandma?” “Yes, dear.” “And I said my lesson splendid, Anna,” he continued, too eager to be quite grammatical. “I am glad of that,” she answered, a little absently, and passed on into the little room she called her own, closing the door behind her. She was not accustomed to lose much time in dreaming or idling; but then she sat down on the bed, and threw her bonnet wearily away, as if her head ached even under its light weight. She looked weary and disheartened—the look so painful to see in a young face; so sad to feel that life’s iron hands settle too heavily over all the youthful dreams and hopes that ought to make youth joyous and beautiful. There she sat quiet, and absorbed in her thoughts till the tired look wore away; and if there had been any to see, they might have told accurately by the expression of her face, and the new light in her eyes, how her thoughts stole, gradually, from the stern, harsh reality into the realm of some beautiful dream-land, whose flower-wreathed gates no care or trouble could pass. She was so young and so lovely—ah, let her dream on! The stern reality lay just outside; the brightness of elf-land might only make its coldness more bleak when she was forced to return; but I would have hesitated to take from her the ability to wander away among her glorious visions. There comes a time when we can dream no longer—you and I know it. But would we lose the memory of the reason when such reveries were more real than the details of the untried existence about us? I think not. I am sure not; and since care and suffering must come, and every human heart learn its appropriate lesson, I would not deprive the young of any share of the glow and brightness which belongs to that feverish season; and you and I both know that its chief sunshine comes from that ability to weave golden visions, and sit in breathless ecstasy under their light. And then Joseph’s voice called outside the door, “Anna—sister Anna?” “Yes, dear; I am coming.”