"A little maiden, frank and fair,
With rosy lips apart,
And sunbeams glinting in her hair,
And sunshine at her heart."
In my last chapter I mentioned the name of Ida. Ida Graham was my
little niece. Alas! she no longer brightens our home with the sunshine
of her smile. Poor child, she was very beautiful. We all thought so,
and every one else who saw her. I have but to close my eyes for a
moment and I see her again knitting quietly by the fire on a winter's
evening, or reading by the open window in the cool of a summer's day;
or, reticule in hand, tripping across the clovery lea, the two great
dogs, Aileen and Nero, bounding in front of her; or blithely singing as
she feeds her canaries; or out in the yard beyond, surrounded by hens
and cocks, pigeons, ducks, and geese, laughing gaily as she scatters the
barley she carries in her little apron.
It was not a bit strange that every creature loved Ida Graham, from the
dogs to the bees. We lost her one day, I remember, in summer-time, and
found her at last sound asleep by the foot of a tree, with deer browsing
quietly near her, a hare washing its face within a yard of her, and wild
birds hopping around and on her.
Such was Ida. It is no wonder, then, that we miss the dear child.
Very often I would have Ida all to myself for a whole day, when my wife
was in town or visiting, and Frank was gardening or had the gout, for he
suffered at times from that aristocratic but tantalising ailment.
On these occasions, when the weather was fine, we always took the dogs
and went off to spend an hour or two in the woods. If it rained we
stayed indoors, seated by the open window in order to be near the birds.
But wet day or fine, Ida generally managed to get a story from me. It
was in the wood, and seated beneath the old pine-tree, that I told her
the following. I called it--
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