Long ago--a long, long time ago--in fact, when he was a boy, and loved dearly a child like himself, a child who is now a fair and beautiful-browed woman, and who smiles with a dreamy, thoughtful expression, when his face comes to her--long ago, flowers were very bright in the bright May day, by a country brookside.

The butter-cups were over all the hills, for children to put under their chins, and pea-blossoms, very much like lady-slippers, swayed prettily in the wind.

Beneath the feet of the boy and girl--she was a merry, bright-eyed child! how I love her still!--broke crocuses and violets, and a thousand wild flowers, fresh and full of fairy beauty.

The grass was green and soft, and the birds rose through the air on fluttering wings, singing and rejoicing, and the clouds floated over them as only clouds in May can float, quickly, hopefully, with a dash of changeful April in them--not like those of August: for the May cloud is a maiden, a child, full of life and joy, running and playing, and looking playfully back at the winds as they rustle on--not August-like--a thoughtful ripened beauty, large, lazy, and contemplative, whose spring of youth has passed, whose summer has arrived, in all its wealth, and power, and languid splendor.

Well, they wandered--the boy and girl--on the bright May day, pleasantly across the hills, and along the brook, which ran merrily over the pebbles as bright as diamonds.