body seemed sorry that they were going. The old gentleman asked which road they intended to take, and when Harry's father answered, by Coalbrook Dale, he said that he was very glad of that, for the sake of his young friends.

Perhaps I shall not be up when you set off in the morning," said he, "so shake hands, young gentleman, and fare you well. It is happy for you, that so early in life you have acquired such a desire for knowledge. To-morrow you will see

Mr. Frankland interrupted him, "My dear sir, do not tell him what he will see. Leave him the pleasure of surprise.”

"GOOD-BYE." It was come to that melancholy word, and as Lucy put her head out of the carriage window, to say the last good-bye to Mr. and Mrs. Frankland, who were on the steps at the hall-door, shutters opened in a bedchamber above, the sash was thrown up, and the old gentleman put

out his head, and repeated "Good-bye! good-bye! and a good journey to you." "Thank you, thank you, sir; and pray shut the window, or you will catch cold," said Lucy. "He was very kind to you, Harry, after all," continued she, as they drove away; "and told you a great many entertaining and useful things; and at last I liked him very well, though he did take so much snuff. And though he was a little cross yesterday at dinner, he made up for it afterwards. I do believe, Harry, that he loves Mrs. Frankland in his heart."

"Who can help it?" said Harry. "I wish," said Lucy, "that when I grow up I may be such a woman."

"I wish you may,” said Harry, in a tone that sounded gruff, because it was as much as he could do to command his voice to speak at all, he was so sorry to part with these kind friends. Lucy indulged him in his taciturnity, and began to examine a little red morocco. memorandum book, which Mrs. Frankland had put into her hand at parting, and which she had held

till now unopened. On turning over the leaves of this book, she found some of the pages filled with close writing.

"Dear, good Mrs. Frankland!"

ex

claimed Lucy. "Look, mamma, she has written all this for us, with her own hand: and what do you think it is?".

"The Juvenile Gardener's Calendar, dedicated to Harry and Lucy, by their sincere friend, E. Frankland.'

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Spring, Summer,' Autumn,' 'Winter,' 'all in four little pages," said Lucy. "I am always puzzled with the long directions in gardening books, about heaps of things too, which I have not; but here, I see, are only such flowers and plants as we have, or ought to have, in our gardens, Harry; and," continued she, after looking over the calendar," it tells me exactly all I wanted to know, about the times and seasons for planting and transplanting, and sowing seeds, and how to have successions of pretty flowers. I must read it to you, Harry." She read, and when she had finished, he joined in her delight, at find

ing that it contained all, and no more than they wanted.

"And you read it much better, Lucy, than you sometimes read writing," said Harry.

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Because," said Lucy, "this is much plainer than writing is sometimes. Do you recollect, Harry, how I stumbled in trying to read to mamma your translation?"

"Yes, I knew you wanted to read it particularly well," said Harry, "but you boggled terribly: it made me very hot"

"Not hotter than I was," said Lucy. "I wanted to read it particularly well indeed." "That was the very reason you could not," said Harry, "you were too anxious and frightened.":

33

"But what frightened me was, that I could not make out the writing. I knew I was making nonsense of what I was reading, and I could not help it. Since you have set up to write a running hand like papa's, you run all your letters into one another, so that at last, in some of your words, there is not a single plain letter."

"Ah! my dear! I can show you in that very translation several—”

"Possibly; but then you make three kinds of rs, and when I have learned to know one of them, then comes the other, quite different; and all your ms, and ns, and us, and vs, are so alike, no human creature in a hurry can tell them asunder; and you never cross your ts, so how can I tell them from ls."

"But I do dot my is," said Harry.

Yes, you do; but you never put the dots over the right letter; I can never guess to what heads the hats belong; and then, worse than all, you half scratch out, and half write over, and half turn one letter into another, and then repent, and leave it no letter at all. But all this I could bear, if you did not make vulgar flourishes."

"Oh! Lucy, be just; I have left off flourishing, you must acknowledge, ever since you told me it was vulgar. I have never flourished since that day."

"But that day was only last Tuesday,"

said Lucy.