92 
the garden; but this stranger she had never before 
seen. 
If Mary had been a little older, she might have 
felt a sympathy with the flower of the trembling 
heart, but her own happy one had felt only the beat¬ 
ings of joy. The Iris, even before she spoke, gave 
her an intimation of something which her own soul 
had not yet told her. 
The flower must have seen, by the earnest look 
of the child’s sweet eyes, that she was longing to 
know something of her; though at first she thought 
her gayer sisters must have attracted her attention. 
At last she spoke. 
“ I came from my native land, little girl, a mes¬ 
senger of love, but not of happiness. I was sent to 
your father by an absent friend who was once as 
joyous as yourself; but alas ! he is now languish¬ 
ing in a deep dungeon, shut out from the bright sun, 
