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For instance, she and Jane left school one morning. Jane, instead of going straight home, went round with one of the girls, who had something to tell her, another way. Susie wanted to walk with them, but Jane would not let her. “No, you cannot come, Susie; we don't want you. Little girls must not hear secrets."

Susie walked away by herself, highly offended. She did not mind going alone. But she did not like being put aside as one of the “little ones,” who was not to be trusted with anything. She was cross with Jane the rest of the day. After tea she went out to buy something for her mother.

Bring me in another skein of this green silk," said Jane; “I cannot finish my purse without it. Here is

the money."

Susie would not take it. “No, Jane," she said, “I am not going on your erra

You would not let me walk with you this morning, so if you want the silk you can fetch it yourself.”

Susie marched off without waiting for Jane's answer. She tried to persuade herself that she had acted quite fairly; that it was only right to let Jane see that she would not be treated in that way without making her suffer for it in return. But she could not satisfy herself. She knew that she had spoken rudely and crossly. She knew that she had forgotten the gentle command, “Little children, love one another.” She went to bed that night sad and dissatisfied with herself.

So you see that Susie did not learn all at once the lesson of "her text." She did not always return

The prison doors being open, the butterfly soon was free.

At first the pretty insect seemed scarcely to know how to use its new-found liberty, and rested with soft, damp, wrinkled wings on the friendly bough of an elm. But the bright creature soon took courage, spread its golden wings, and flew away to sip a little breakfast in the shade of a large red rose.

This rose, with many a flower and shrub beside, grew in a garden where a little boy called Frank Kirby often played, for it belonged to his papa, and so did the house that stood in the middle. Frank had a holiday that day, and, resolving to make the most of this un. usual treat, had started the moment breakfast was over for a long play in the garden. It was well, indeed, he had not been lazy that morning, or he might not have seen the butterfly we have just been describing escape from its prison. But he had seen all-much more than we have been able to relate—had followed the gay insect to the red rose bush, and at last ran with breathless haste into his father's study, because his beautiful little friend had flown in through the window. What could a butterfly want in a study ? Surely it was not the book-shelves that drew the visitor. They might have proved an attraction to Frank, who, if the holiday had been wet, might have been looking at pictures, or searching for stories among some of these volumes, but the butterfly found all it wanted in the sunshine and the flowers.' And its love for flowers coaxed it into Mr. Kirby's study. A Targé bunch of fresh roses and lilies had just been plaand on the table, and the sweet odour was quite

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A BUTTERFLY STORY. A BEAUTIFUL bright butterfly floated up and down in the morning sun. It was taking its first look at the world in summer dress, having only an hour ago escaped from its prison, where in darkness and silence it had lain for many a week. What a change that hour had made !

Something like a dried leaf had been hanging from the lowest bough of a tree; it was a chrysalis, or butterfly-case; but this morning it seemed alive, it moved backwards and forwards, and then burst into four parts.

The prison doors being open, the butterfly soon was free.

At first the pretty insect seemed scarcely to know how to use its new-found liberty, and rested with soft, damp, wrinkled wings on the friendly bough of an elm. But the bright creature soon took cotirage, spread its golden wings, and flew away to sip a little breakfast in the shade of a large red rose.

This rose, with many a flower and shrub beside, grew in a garden where a little boy called Frank Kirby often played, for it belonged to his papa, and so did the house that stood in the middle. Frank had a holiday that day, and, resolving to make the most of this unusual treat, had started the moment breakfast was over for a long play in the garden. It was well, indeed, he had not been lazy that morning, or lie might not have seen the butterfly we have just been describing escape from its prison. But he had seen all-much more than we have been able to relate—had followed the gay insect to the red rose bush, and at last ran with breathless haste into his father's study, because his beautiful little friend had flown in through the window. What could a butterfly want in a study ? Surely it was not the book-shelves that drew the visi. tor. They might have proved an attraction to Frank, who, if the holiday had been wet, might have been looking at pictures, or searching for stories among some of these volumes, but the butterfly found all it wanted in the sunshine and the flowers. And its love for flowers coaxed it into Mr. Kirby's stüdy. A largé bunch of fresh roses and lilies had just been placed on the table, and the sweet odour was quite

enough to induce even a less dainty creature to come near and admire. But by the time Frank had run to the hall door, up the stairs and into the study, his little friend had finished its visit to the bunch of flowers, and was quietly resting, with folded wings, on the side of a round box which lay on the table. This might have been a dangerous position for the poor butterfly if Frank had been a cruel boy, but he had early been taught how wrong it is wantonly to hurt any of God's creatures, each one of which displays the wisdom and power of the Creator. So he stepped gently to the table, and, leaning against it, took a long earnest look at the elegant little visitor.

His attention was so taken up that he did not hear his papa coming into the room, and started when a voice asked, “What treasure have you there, Frank "

Oh, papa, a butterfly, and such a beauty; I never saw one like it before."

It is a rare kind, indeed, in this partof the country; its name is the swallow-tailed butterfly, and there are many curious things about the caterpillar from which it comes, and the wonderful changes it undergoes in reaching this perfect state, that I should like to tell you about; but as this is a holiday I shall not stop you from your merry play."

“Please, papa, do tell me all you can; I want to know a great deal about the little thing."

“Well, first I shall tell you that, like Frank Kirby, your favourite has a proper name ; learned people call him papilio machaon."

" What a grand name, papa! I shall just call him little swallow-tail."

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