at what time, her child lived and moved above the breast wherein he now lies. Soft-furred, silvery moss gently veils these details, unimportant now; but one word of all the inscription is spared,—"Peace." Margaret, pausing by this sepulchre, breathes a deep sigh; and leaning upon the sculptured urn, reads the lesson of mortality, so often learned, so oft forgotten.
Far off, at the opposite corner of the garden, stands a pavilion, whose sides and roof seem woven of living jasmine and honeysuckle. Here breakfast has been prepared, and hither Sara Harden comes, dainty and fresh as a shepherdess of romance. Her fair, curling hair is gathered high on her head beneath a distracting little hat, all blue ribbons and roses. Her skin is admirably set off by the pale blue of her Watteau dress, and her dewy infantine eyes shine like deep forget-me-nots. A perfectly pretty woman is Sara Harden; beautiful, no one who knows the value of that superlative term would call her. There are no grand lines, no mysterious coming and going of light and shadow in her delicate face; no moments of loveliness obscured for a time and then shining out radiant and all powerful; nothing of the half-painful influence which great beauty holds for those who are enamored of it,—nothing of this has the bonny shepherdess, only a restful, pleasure-giving prettiness, which
