dom, and yet was afraid to seek it in the garden. She wanted a companion to talk to. She could not forget the mortification of being called ugly by Apollo and that hateful Lady Fritillary. Then to think that that spiteful old maid was a bride, and that she, poor Beauty, was left to be an old maid, and called odd and shabby. And what made it worse, she was forced to acknowledge the truth of it. She had grown shabby and dusty, and her torn wing made her fly very clumsily, and all her bright spirits were gone.

To add to her troubles, Sylphina was for ever playing tiresome pranks, worrying all around her. That very morning, when the lesson-bell rang, she was nowhere to be found. High and low did they all hunt for her, and when, after more than half-an-hour's search, Mrs. Selwyn sent the nurse back to the nursery, and seated herself at the piano to give Clara a music lesson, Sylphina, who had been all the time perched on the top of the bookcase, appeared again as Amy, walking quietly in from the veranda, pretending to be perfectly unconscious that she had been missed. Then, ten minutes afterwards, she had taken the pin out of Mrs. Selwyn's knitting, dropped Clara's thimble into the ink-bottle, and added tails to all the o's, and heads to all the i's, in Hubert's copy-book. Poor Beauty saw it all from the top of the book-shelves, but could do nothing to prevent it, and laying her head down sadly, she exclaimed, 'Oh, I am so unhappy!

I am so useless! I wish I could be something better than a butterfly! I wish I could be a child again.'

Suddenly a ray of sunshine, glowing with the most brilliant rainbow colours, shone full upon her, and the same lovely voice she had before heard came floating from the distance its delicious music :

'And wouldst thou wish to be a child

Again, at mother's knee?

Some kindness thou must show to one
Who's been unkind to thee.'

'Sylphina is the only one who has been unkind to me, and I can't show her any kindness, I hate her so, because she worries mamma, and makes her think me naughty,' cried Amy passionately.

The brilliant sunshine faded, the wind sighed sadly through the flowers, and the voice sounded more distant as again it sang

'Then wouldst thou wish to make a change?

Some kind act thou must do,

And brighter, better, thou shalt grow,

And ever lovelier too.'

'What kind act can a little miserable, weak butterfly do?' said Amy.

The children had just had their luncheon, and on a side-table was still standing their empty mugs, and a milk-jug half filled with milk, into which a poor fly had fallen, and was struggling for life.

'Perhaps I could save that fly from being drowned,' said Beauty joyfully. She flew down immediately,

and, standing upon the edge of the milk-jug, stretched out a leg to the little drowning creature. The fly seized so eagerly upon the proffered help, that Beauty's hold upon the slippery edge of the jug gave way, and she slid down into the milky lake. The fly crawled upon her back, and from thence was able to reach a place of safety, and as Beauty was drowning she heard its grateful thanks. 'Oh! you do not know, you generous creature, the good that you have done. I have five children at home; if you had not saved me, they would have been orphans, and must have perished.'

'I have been able to do a kind act. I am so glad,' faintly whispered Amy, and then a dreamy state stole over her. She felt as if she were being carried away by gentle zephyrs she knew not whither, while softest melodies breathed around her, till she sank into unconsciousness.

Suddenly a burst of brilliant sunshine roused her to new life, and she found herself standing on the window sill, a beautiful bird, pouring out from her little throat the richest harmonies.

'Oh! what a lovely canary!' exclaimed Clarà; 'where can it have come from?'

'It is not a canary, my dear,' said her mother; it is a golden oriole; it is exactly like one your aunt Elizabeth brought from India.'

'Jug, jug, jug, jug, jug, trill-la,' sang the little bird.

F

'What a delicious change! I am no longer dumb. I can pour out my feelings of gladness in joyous song. I can express my affections with gentle warblings, or with mournful chirps tell my griefs.'

She flew on her mother's hand with such an exulting song, that her little throat swelled almost to bursting. Then she stopped, looked up at her mother, to see if she understood her, turning her head gently from side to side, to catch her endearing words. Then again burst forth with soft rich trills

‘Jug, jug, jug, jug, jug, trill-la,

Oh, mother dear, I love you!
Jug-jug-jug trill, lill, lill, la,
Your Amy is beside you.'

'How tame it is,' said Clara, 'one would think it was talking to us.'

'I wish we could understand what it says,' said Hubert. I dare say it is telling us a long story of where it has come from, and all its adventures.'

'Ah,' said his mother, 'whether it is telling us or not, we must try and find them out, for its tameness shows it must be some one's pet bird.'

Sylphina, who had all this time been singularly silent, hunting all over the room, now joined them, saying, 'Clara, your pet butterfly has disappeared, perhaps the fairies have changed it into a bird.'

'I am very much obliged to them if they have,' said Clara, laughing, 'for I like a bird much the best, but I am afraid the foolish little butterfly must have flown