CECILLE'S HYMN.
I.
Thine, Father, is yon sky so bright,
And Thine the sun, whose golden light
Is shed alike on brook and sea,
On lowly flower and lofty tree.
So Thou, in equal love, hast smiled
On seraph high and humble child.
II.
No sea on which the sun doth look
Gleams brighter than yon little brook,
The loftiest tree, the lowliest flower,
Alike rejoice to feel his power;
And Thou, while seraphs hymn thy praise,
Dost bend to hear my simple lays.
When I was quite near Cecille my steps caused her to look around. She did not seem at all startled or surprised at seeing me, but with a pleasant smile held out her hand to me as I bade her good morning.
"I see, Cecille," said I, "that this lovely weather makes you an idler as well as me."
"Not quite an idler, ma'am," she replied, showing me a drawing she had made while sitting there, of the Widow Daly's cottage and orchard.
"For what is that pretty drawing intended, Cecille?"
"I hardly know yet, ma'am. The sun looked so bright and warm, that grandmamma knew I longed to be in it, so she made me put away my embroidery and come out, and this was the only thing I could do out here."