"Aunt Faith!"—"Mrs. Sheldon!" cried the company, as the last drawing was displayed.
"Bravo, Bessie!" said Tom; "your contribution is the best so far."
When the buzz of conversation had subsided, Hugh took another paper from the basket.
"The next contribution is poetical," he said; "it is entitled:—
'A JUNE RHAPSODY.
The lovely month of June has come,
The sweetest of the year,—
(I've heard this somewhere;—never mind;)
The meadows green and sear;—
Sear's not the word; there's something wrong,—
I fear my muse will drop
The fire of genius' flowing song,
And so I'd better stop!
ROSE SAXON.'"
A general laugh followed this effusion, and no one joined in it more heartily than the authoress, a bright little brunette with sparkling eyes, in whose expression merriment predominated.
"Our next manuscript seems to be of a serious nature," said Hugh; "it treats of a solemn subject, and I beg you to give it your attentive consideration:—