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“I would go, then,” said Aunt Hannah, who thought favourably of any thing likely to divert the mind of her niece from the brooding melancholy in which it was shrouded.

To Paris Mrs. Canning went, accompanied by her little daughter, who was the favourite of every one on board the steamer in which they sailed. In this gray city, however, she did not attain as much relief of mind as she had anticipated. She found it almost impossible to take interest in any thing, and soon began to long for the time to come when she could go back to the home and heart of her good Aunt Hannah. The greatest pleasure she took was in going with Lilly to the Gardens of the Tuileries, and amid the crowd there to feel alone with nature in some of her most beautiful aspects. Lilly was always delighted to get there, and never failed to bring something in her pocket for the pure white swans that floated so gracefully in the marble basin into which the water dashed cool and sparkling from beautiful fountains.

One day, while the child was playing at a short distance from her mother, a man seated beside a bronze statue, over which drooped a large orange tree, fixed his eyes upon her admiringly, as hundreds of others had done. Presently she came up and stood close to him, looking up into the face of the statue. The man said something to her in French, but Lilly only smiled and shook her head.

“What is your name, dear?” he then said in English.

“Lilly,” replied the child.

A quick change passed over the man’s face. With much more interest in his voice, he said–

“Where do you live? In London?”

“Oh no, sir; I live in America.”

“What is your name besides Lilly?”

“Lilly Canning, sir.”

The man now became strongly agitated. But he contended vigorously with his feelings.

“Where is your mother, dear?” he asked, taking her hand as he spoke, and gently pressing it between his own.

“She is here, sir,” returned Lilly, looking inquiringly into the man’s face.

“Here!”

“Yes, sir. We come here every day.”

“Where is your mother now?”

“Just on the other side of the fountain. You can’t see her for the lime-tree.”

“Is your father here, also?” continued the man.

“No, I don’t know where my father is.” “Is he dead?” “No, sir; mother says he is not dead, and that she hopes he will come home soon. Oh! I wish he would come home. We would all love him so!”

The man rose up quickly, and turning from the child, walked hurriedly away. Lilly looked after him for a moment or two, and then ran back to her mother.

On the next day Lilly saw the same man sitting under the bronze statue. He beckoned to her, and she went to him.

“How long have you been in Paris, dear?” he asked.

“A good many weeks,” she replied.

“Are you going to stay much longer?”

“I don’t know. But mother wants to go home.”

“Do you like to live in Paris?”

“No, sir. I would rather live at home with mother and Aunt Hannah.”

“You live with Aunt Hannah, then?”

“Yes, sir. Do you know Aunt Hannah?” and the child looked up wonderingly into the man’s face.

“I used to know her,” he replied.

Just then Lilly heard her mother calling her, and she started and ran away in the direction from which the voice came. The man’s face grew slightly pale, and he was evidently much agitated. As he had done on the evening previous, he rose up hastily and walked away. But in a short time he returned, and appeared to be carefully looking about for some one. At length he caught sight of Lilly’s mother. She was sitting with her eyes upon the ground, the child leaning upon her, and looking into her face, which he saw was thin and pale, and overspread with a hue of sadness. Only for a few moments did he thus gaze upon her, and then he turned and walked hurriedly from the garden.