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 The air was as balmy as a day in June, and a gay time Walter and the squirrels had, of whom he was particularly fond, a fact which they seemed to divine. The birds were Rosalind's greater favorites who chirped about her as if to impart the joy they felt for this genial breath of summer air.

Mrs. Claremont lived over again the days of her girlhood, comparing their measure of happiness with that of maturer years, and arrived at the sage conclusion that the prevalent idea of the greatest amount of happiness being possible to young people, because free from care, was as erroneous as it would be to call the learner of the alphabet more enviable than the mathematician, or the astronomer, as the demand is less on the intellectual powers. She did not fail to comprehend, however, how much truth there is in this idea, for the majority of the world, whose overwhelming cares oppress their faculties to such a degree, that their minds have no opportunity to expand.

"Philosophizing yet," observed Mr. Claremont, as he and the children surprised her on a little mound where she was sitting, apparently lost in contemplation, her eyes fixed on the blue expanse of water in the distance.

"Was it thus you philosophized in the days of 'auld lang syne, said Walter with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, "when father did a wooing go?"

"Impudence beyond measure," retorted Rosalind, kicking along the chestnut burrs at her feet, "when the frost comes in good—earnest, we'll have another stroll here after the chestnuts. I was going to say this has been the happiest day of my life, but had