Her abundant chestnut hair was gathered on the top of her small head, and fell in curls on either side of her smooth white brow; not concealed now by the large Dunstable straw bonnet, which was hanging to her arm by the strings, and left the gentle breeze of the morning free, to play amongst the clustering curls, at their own sweet will. Joyce's features were regular, and her complexion rosy and healthy. Indeed, everything about her seemed to tell of youth and the full enjoyment of the gifts which God had given her. "A perfect little rustic!" her aunt in the Vicar's close at Wells called her sometimes, and would suggest to her father that a year or two at a "finishing school" would be an advantage. But the squire could not bring himself to part from his only daughter, and her education had been, I am afraid, sadly neglected. "Well, little one," Mr. Falconer said, as he seated himself on a rough wooden bench, "what is this?" touching the cover of a book that peeped from her apron pocket. "It is a book, father, Charlotte lent me: Mrs. Hemans' poems." "Ah! poetry is a good thing when it is kept in its right place." "I have been learning a long poem called 'Edith,' and I repeat it when I am darning stockings, picking up a stitch for every word. Don't you understand, father?" "I never darned a stocking," he said, laughing. "Ah! happy father! Mother has now given me six pairs of Melville's new socks, to strengthen the heels. In and out, in and out with the long needle; I have to try very hard not to grumble, so I say 'Edith' as a comfort, and to help me on." 'The woods--oh! solemn are the boundless woods Of the great Western world when day declines, And louder sounds the roll of distant floods, More deep the rustling of the solemn pines; When darkness gathers o'er the stilly air, And mystery seems o'er every leaf to brood, Awful it is for human heart to bear The weight and burden of the solitude.' "Father," she said, suddenly stopping, "you are thinking of something that troubles you. I know it by the deep line on your forehead, between your eyes. May I know, father?" "Well, Sunshine, I am troubled about Melville; he wants to go and see the world, he says. I have given him as good an education as befits his station in life. He has made little use of it; and the bills for the last term at Oxford have been enormous." "How shameful!" Joyce exclaimed.