BONNIE JEANNIE. CHAPTER I. THE MOTHER AT THE HOME FARM. * When they had opened her cage door, My little bird used her wings. "But they left in her stead a changeling, That seems like her bud in full blossom, M J. R. LOWELL. ANY a pent-up Londoner, enjoying a day's holiday in Harley Wood, has turned with a lingering look of pleasure and admiration toward the "Home Farm." Its quaint gables, latticed windows, bordered with green trellis, for the benefit of the creeping plants, its spreading vine-the safe place where small birds hatch and rear their broods-its picturesque situation on the summit of a green hill, and its prospect of woodland and meadow, all tend to render it an attractive homestead to eyes more familiar with dingy bricks and dim workshops than with any phase of Nature's own glad scenery. Behind the Home Farm, at a little distance, is the ancient church of Harley, with its ivycovered tower; and in front, about two hundred yards away, is the modern and matter-of-fact railway line, along which the trains to and from London constantly dash and rattle; hiding themselves at length among the grand old trees of a beautiful and once quiet wood; now cleared in parts, and some of the old inhabitants say, despoiled to make way for them. But let us pass to the interior of the dwelling -over the deep cart-ruts on the outlying path, through the broad, swinging gate, and along the garden walk, ignoring, for the present, the poultry yard on our right hand, and the long stretch of kitchen garden on our left; conferring the same slight upon the somewhat imposing front door, with its well-polished brass knob and knocker, and making our way to the side of the house, where, in an old-fashioned entrance porch, furnished |