# Orange Grove (Wall)/Chapter 30

"Home is the sphere of harmony and peace, The spot where angels find a resting place, When, bearing blessings, they descend to earth."
Shall we describe the angel-child Lilly, whose symmetrical features and quiet ways were the exact counterpart of her father's, or shall we leave her to the creation of the fancy, after giving the brief outlines? Fair as a lily her straight soft brown hair was of the richest hue in which nature asserted her independence, as that of both her parents curled. Mrs. Claremont christened her the Mayflower. Kate declared her the "most perfect incantation of the saint she ever knew," and Milly abandoned her old daily occupation of analysing men and things, to devote her attention exclusively to this new revelation of the divine genius. It had never been her fortune to live with a baby before, and her warm affections soon twined around her with all the strength of a nature which had expanded without any particular object of love. This sweet companionship with a child formed one of the most blessed experiences of her life. A priceless blessing to this sorrow-stricken world is ever the presence of childhood. When bowed with age or rent with anguish, cheerily sounds the innocent little laugh coming from a soul bubbling over with its own merriment. And the bounding little footstep and the roguish little hand, alike ruffling to the ​temper and provocative of smiles, win us from the staid maxims of life to that primeval state when the impulses gush out in rude defiance of any established principle to guide them. And the vexatious cares that have burdened many a mother whose strength was not equal to the task, are suddenly transformed into coveted enjoyments that would bring joy and health to her again, when the little form is hidden from her eyes forever.
The crib, the "half-worn shoe," broken toys, and anon some lost trinket, accidently discovered where it has been secreted by roguish hands, speak volumes that pen could never express, and form more sacred relics than were ever gathered by pilgrim bauds.
Lilly was an active, playful child, but so still that she never disturbed any one. A frequent visitor at her father's studio, those little baby fingers amused themselves with drawing birds, kittens and flowers, when her lips could only lisp their names. Having a great passion for flowers her father appropriated a little spot of ground solely to her use where she was permitted to go at any time to pick them, and taught to understand that they were at her own disposal as her private property, which afforded unbounded delight. Nearly every visitor at the house was presented with a flower, sometimes with a boquet. An aged man, who had apparently seen fourscore years, one day made his appearance at the gate when she was busily engaged with her watering pot. Her father pointed him out to her and, dropping the pot, she hastily gathered a pansy and a daisy to present to him. The old man was deeply moved by the ​friendliness of the little gift, and turning to Mr. Livingston said, "If every body had been as considerate as that little child, I should not be where I am. When any body begins to go down, the world keeps pushing him down, not even deigning to give him so much as a daisy to cheer him."
"Oh the little darlin', what a blessed angel you are," said Kate, as she ran out and snatched her from her father's arms on their return from an evening ride, and sallying into the kitchen, kept up such a constant chatter and laugh, that when Milly took her to prepare for her night's rest, the child was so excited she did not go to sleep until midnight. Talking with her eyes more than with her lips, Kate liked to watch their sparkle when any thing pleased her. And then she had such cunning little hands, neither chubby nor lank, but just full enough to take off their bony look, which was her conception of a beautiful hand.
Walter came home that day, having completed his studies and prepared himself for the practice of his profession, intending to commence it in his own native city, and if successful, to establish himself there permanently.
A curious little adventure happened that afternoon as he and Mr. Livingston were out looking at a beautiful collection of plants, where they happened to meet an old classmate of the latter, whom he had not seen for many years.
Being a student of botanical science, and also somewhat eccentric, he asked Mr. Livingston if he had any rare specimens of plants to show him, in reply ​to an invitation to call at his house. With a mischievous twinkle in his eyes which, however, was unperceived by his friend, he informed him that he had two very rare specimens of the rose and lily, he would be very happy to introduce to him. Impatient of delay, in the anticipation of such rich treasuries, the bachelor friend could wait no longer, and called that evening, just after Lilly was taken up stairs to her mother. After the usual salutations, Ernest hastened after them, fearing it might be too late for Lilly—to appear in her most interesting manner, as it was getting late and she might be sleepy. On the contrary, ho thought she never looked so pretty before. The excitement had imparted a delicate flush to her cheeks, and her eyes, which resembled his in expression, were sparkling with happiness running over. Taking her in one arm and giving his wife the other, he took them to the parlor and after introducing them, said, "These are my Rose and Lilly, and in granting your desire to inform you where you may be able to obtain more of the same species, I have only to say that profiting by my experience, you must select your rose from the purest love, and you will never feel its thorn, and fairer than any hot-house plant will bloom the lily of your household." The bachelor friend was rather abashed, but enjoyed the joke. Whether this little incident awakened emotions that had long been slumbering, or Milly's pleasant face and unassuming ways alone attracted him, it was evident by his frequent calls before leaving the city and inquiries after her when not present, that he felt an unusual interest in ​her. What might have been, but for Lilly whom no stranger could supplant in her affections, romance doth not say. She was too happy now to desire any change.
When Lilly was three years old her father painted her picture, which was a source of great delight to them both. She would steal softly into his room and look over his shoulder when busily engaged upon it, arid without interrupting him by a single word stand perhaps half an hour, when, giving him a kiss and receiving one in return, she glided out as still as she glided in.
Halcyon days were those, fitting scenes for a novelest to dwell upon. In the reality of life there is so much of pain ai)d sorrow to sicken the soul, one turns with irrepressible longing to a fairer world, whore affection, divinely commissioned of heaven, has power to assuage many a sorrow and heal many a pain. Such homes do exist in real life, sufficient to show that we can form no ideal so high even in romance, as to be unattainable. The ideal is the divine part of our nature and it is in striving to make it real that progress is made.
The function of the novelist, however trifling or detrimental it may seem to the prosaic mind, is an important one. Through the fascinating power thus wielded over others a great influence may be exerted to elevate the moral tone of society by presenting pictures of domestic life that shall array the merits and demerits of virtues and vices, delineating those delicate threadings among the counter currents of passions and emotions that control the individual, which escape the observation in actual life.