the child's mind and character. John P. Burrows was fond of music, and often would little Annie be taken to hear a fine chorister; or sometimes, on Sunday afternoon, the two would walk from Gower-street to the Zoological Gardens. No wonder if the little feet ached upon those occasions! At other times this companionable father would empty his pockets of coppers (before dressing) for Annie's benefit, Ann Carwardine's grandchild taking care of their bright faces until there had accumulated enough to buy a rose-wood desk. It must have been a pretty sight to see the father listening to his daughter's first piece, "La Petite Surprise," the chubby fingers of five summers rendering the small intricacies of this French composition upon the piano with painstaking fidelity.

In common with many fathers, John P. Burrows was somewhat hasty, enforcing his will with quick punishment. With his daughter an occasion for punishment occurred but once, and, whatever the occasion, the little woman's pride was ruffled by it. In after In after years Anne Gilchrist expressed disapproval of punishment, holding that a parent should avoid conflicts with a child's mind. in small matters, and always resort to gentle means when possible.

Anne has a playmate in John T. Burrows, the typical brother, who burns the dollies of a yielding and half-hearted devotee of dolly.

From a tale, "Lost in the Wood," one of the Magnet Stories, published in the autumn of 1861, we get a glimpse of the brother's and sister's childhood. "When I was about nine or ten years old," writes Anne

A JOURNEY BY COACH.

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Gilchrist, "I was taken to pay a long visit to an uncle, who lived in a wild country place-Tolleshunt-Knights, Essex-of which he was the clergyman. . . . We went in a coach, which, though it had four horses to draw it, and fresh ones every ten miles, took nearly the whole day to go the sixty miles to Tiptree, near which place my uncle lived. But oh! were we not wild with delight, I and my brother! When we felt the coach no longer rattling over stones, but bowling along a road with hedges on each side, that seemed scampering away from us instead of we from them; when we passed golden cornfields, sprinkled here and there with beautiful scarlet poppies ; and green meadows with dear, white, woolly sheep nibbling away in them-it was hard work to sit still and not to jump for joy, and shout and sing, and otherwise torment the grave grown-up people in the coach. Well, the journey came to an end at last. And, to say the truth, we were rather tired of it before it was over, and were glad enough to change from the inside of a coach to open air in the four-wheeled chaise, which stood ready waiting for us at the inn where the coach stopped. Off we go again, across a broad common, past the tall windmill, which I remember, was swinging round its great arms merrily, as if resolved to do a good day's work, for the wind blew fresh.

"Then down a winding, shady lane, and just as the sun was sinking, we turned in at the white gate of Elmwood Rectory. In the porch, to welcome us, stood my aunt and her little son Frank, a merry-looking fellow, with bright hazel eyes-just the playfellow for the coming six weeks. I hardly know which is pleasantest,

the first arrival—when, hungry and tired, you sit down at table, with kind faces round, looking a welcome, and delicious country fare-new milk and eggs, and homemade bread, and swan-shaped pats of butter spread out before you or when you stretch out your limbs in the snow-white bed, the sheets, the room, everything smelling sweet, and looking strange and bright, and the last sound you hear before dropping off to sleep is the rustling of the leaves and the scratching of the boughs of the great tree outside against your window; or when the sun, shining in brightly, wakes you in the morning, for a moment wondering where you are, till the sound of the gardener whetting his scythe to mow the lawn tells you that you are really in the country; that what you have been dreaming and longing for, for weeks, has come to pass, and you jump up briskly, that you may get into the garden while yet the flowers are covered with dewdrops.

"Cousin Frank and brother [Johnny] were already out, and together we explored the garden. Such a garden! I am afraid none will ever seem so beautiful to me again. There was a broad lawn, and on each side of it a flower-border, in which tall white lilies glistened against a background of dark evergreens; and roses and mignonette, and all sweet-smelling flowers, bloomed there in abundance; evening primroses, too, which it is so pretty to watch towards sunset, shutting themselves up by fits and starts for the night. The lawn sloped down towards a haw-haw, which is neither more nor less than a ditch. But a ditch, not with ragged sides and muddy bottom, such asyou see under a hedge, but made

A SUNNY DAY.

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trim and fit for the garden; with sides of smooth short grass which slope till they meet, so that there is no flat bottom to hold mud or water. What a capital place for trap- ball that lawn was! Every evening, when the shadows lengthened and the air grew cool, we used to have a game, while the old folks sat by on the bench under the great pear-tree, with honeysuckle climbing round it, which stood in the middle.

"No small treat, too, was it to fetch up the cow from the field, and sometimes she would let the smallest of us ride on her back; and then we stood in a corner of the cow-house to watch the milking. Also, there was piggy -ugly, but funny-and very grateful if you took him a few wind-fall apples, or scratched his head with a stick. "One morning, my mother and aunt went to spend the day with friends, a few miles off, and we children were left to do almost what we pleased. For Uncle [Billy] was much engaged in his study, and did not concern. himself with our doings.

"There was a wood about a couple of miles off; nuts were ripe, what could be pleasanter than to go nutting? To this we all agreed; and my brother, Cousin Frank, and my self, set off as gay as the lark. What a delicious place a wood is on a hot sunny day! You feel as if you would like to live there always. The boys cut some famous long hooked sticks to draw down the branches with, and we gathered nuts till our teeth grew tired of cracking, and our pockets and handkerchiefs were stuffed quite full.

"I think we've had enough of this,' said Frank. 'What shall we do now?'

"I vote for birdsnesting,' answered Johnny. For some time I stood watching the boys as they climbed about; but I don't think they found many nests, except, perhaps, a few old ones from which the young birds had long since flown. If we had been country children, or if Frank had been older, we should have known it was not much use to search for eggs in autumn, when nuts were ripe. When I grew tired of watching them, I wandered away hunting for wild flowers, and trying to sing, as I was very fond of doing, some of my mother's favourite old songs. There was one broad path through the wood, full of ruts, which the waggons used when they came to cart brushwood or timber, and there were narrow green paths winding in all directions, so narrow that I had to hold the boughs aside with my hands, and even then tore my clothes sadly in pushing through. But somehow the narrower and wilder the path, the more inviting it looked. The sound of my companions' voices shouting and laughing grew fainter and fainter, and at last I could not hear them at all; but I felt very happy, and not a bit lonely. There was velvety moss to sit down on, and the air was full of pleasant sounds; soft cooing of wood pigeons, the little tapping noise of the woodpecker's beak against the bark of a tree, and a buzzing and humming, and chirping of all sorts of merry little creatures, which seemed enjoying the summer's day and the shady wood as much as I did. And then, as nobody was by to listen, I sang my favourite tunes louder than ever, till the wood rang with them. . . .

"One morning, Frank and Johnny were high busy in the fir grove, with carpentering tools and a block of