"What shall we do about Rose? We have tried Saratoga, and that failed to cheer her up; we tried the sea-shore, and that failed; now we have tried the mountains, and they are going to fail, like the rest. See if your woman's wit can't devise something to help the child, Milly."

"Time and tenderness will work the cure; and she will be all the better for this experience, I hope."

"So do I. But I don't pretend to understand these nervous ailments; so, if air, exercise, and change of scene don't cure the vapors, I give it up. Girls didn't have such worries in my day."

And the old gentleman shook his head, as if modern ills perplexed him very much.

But Milly smiled the slow, wise smile of one who had learned much from experience; among other things, the wisdom of leaving certain troubles to cure themselves.

"Has the child expressed a wish for any thing? If so, out with it, and she shall be gratified, if it can be done," began Uncle Ben, after a moment of silence, as they sat watching the moonlight, that glorified the summer night.

"The last wish is one that we can easily gratify, if you don't mind the fatigue. The restless spirit that possesses her keeps suggesting new things. Much exercise does her good, and is an excellent way to work off this unrest. She likes to tire herself out; for then she sleeps, poor dear."

"Well, well, what does the poor dear want to do?" asked Uncle Ben, quickly.

"She said to-day that, instead of going off on excursions, as we have been doing, she would like to stroll away some pleasant morning, and follow the road wherever it led, finding and enjoying any little adventures that might come along,—as Richter's heroes do."

"Yes, I see: white butterflies, morning red, disguised counts, philosophic plowmen, and all the rest of the romantic rubbish. Bless the child, does she expect to find things of that sort anywhere out of a German novel?"

"Plenty of butterflies and morning-glories, uncle, and a girl's imagination will supply the romance. Perhaps we can get up some little surprise to add flavor to our day's adventures," said Milly, who rather favored the plan, for much romance still lay hidden in that quiet heart of hers.

"Where shall we go? What shall we do? I don't know how this sort of thing is managed."

"Do nothing but follow us. Let her choose her road; and we will merely see that she has food and rest, protection, and as much pleasure as we can make for her out of such simple materials. Having her own way will gratify her, and a day in the open air do her good. Shall we try it, sir?"

"With all my heart, if the fancy lasts till morning. I'll have some lunch put up, and order Jim to dawdle after us with the wagon full of waterproofs, and so on, in case we break down. I rather like the idea, now I fairly take it in." And Uncle Ben quite beamed with interest and good-will; for a kinder-hearted man never breathed, and, in spite of his fifty years, he was as fond of adventures as any boy.

"Then, as we must be up and away very early, I'll say good-night, sir," and Milly rose to go, looking well satisfied with the success of her suggestion.

"Good-night, my dear," and Uncle Ben rose also, flung away his cigar, and offered his hand with the old-fashioned courtesy which he always showed his niece's friend; for Milly only called him uncle to please him.

"You are sure this wild whim won't be too much for you? You are such a self-sacrificing soul, I'm afraid my girl will wear you out," he said, looking down at her with a fatherly expression, very becoming to his comely countenance.

"Not a bit, sir. I like it, and would gladly do any thing to please and help Rose. I'm very fond of her, and love to pet and care for her. I'm so alone in the world I cling to my few friends, and feel as if I couldn't do enough for them."

Something in Milly's face made Uncle Ben hold her hand close in both of his a moment, and look as if he was going to stoop and kiss her. But he seemed to think better of it; for he only shook the soft hand warmly, and said, in his hearty tone,—

"I don't know what we should do without you, my dear. You are one of the women born to help and comfort others, and ask no reward but love."

As the first streaks of dawn touched the eastern sky, three faces appeared at three different windows of the great hotel. One was a masculine face, a ruddy, benevolent countenance, with kind eyes, grayish hair cheerfully erect upon the head, and a smile on the lips, that softly whistled the old air of

The second was one of those serene, sweet faces, possessing an attraction more subtle than beauty; eyes always full of silent sympathy, a little wistful sometimes, but never sad, and an expression of peace and patience that told of battles fought and victories won. A happy, helpful soul shone from that face and made it lovely, though its first bloom was past and a solitary future lay before it.

The third was rich in the charms that youth and health lend any countenance. But, in spite of the bloom on the rounded cheeks, the freshness of the lips, and the soft beauty of the eyes, the face that looked out from the bonny brown hair, blowing in the wind, was not a happy one. Discontent, unrest, and a secret hunger seemed to sadden and sharpen all its outlines, making it pathetic to those who could read the language of an unsatisfied heart.

Poor little Rose was waiting, as all women must wait, for the good gift that brightens life; and, while she waited, patience and passion were having a hard fight in the proud silence of her heart.

"It will be a capital day, girls," called Uncle Ben, in his cheery voice.

"I thought it would be," answered Milly, nodding back, with a smile.

"I know it will pour before night," added Rose, who saw every thing just then through blue spectacles.

"Breakfast is ready for us. Come on, girls, or you'll miss your morning red," called Uncle Ben, retiring, with a laugh.

"I lost mine six months ago," sighed Rose, as she listlessly gathered up the brown curls, that were once her pride.

"Hark! hark! the lark at Heaven's gate sings," sounded from Milly's room, in her blithe voice.

"Tiresome little bird! Why don't he stay in his nest and cheer his mate?" muttered Rose, refusing to be cheered.

"Now lead on, my dear, we'll follow till we drop," said Uncle Ben, stoutly, as they stood on the piazza, half an hour later, with no one but a sleepy waiter to watch and wonder at the early start.

"I have always wondered where that lonely road went to, and now I shall find out," answered Rose, with an imperious little gesture, as she led the way. The others followed so slowly that she felt alone, and enjoyed it, in spite of herself.

It was the most eloquent hour of the day, for all was beautiful, all was fresh; nothing was out of order, nothing disturbed eye or ear, and the world seemed to welcome her with its morning face. The road wound between forests full of the green gloom no artist can ever paint. Pines whispered, birches quivered, maples dropped grateful shadows, and a little river foamed and sparkled by, carrying its melodious message from the mountains to the sea. Glimpses of hoary peaks broke on her now and then, dappled with shadows or half-veiled in mists, floating and fading like incense from altars fit for a cathedral not built with hands. Leafy vistas opened temptingly on either side, berries blushed ripely in the grass, cow-bells tinkled pleasantly along the hillsides, and that busy little farmer, the "Peabody bird," cried from tree to tree, "Sow your wheat, Peabody! Peabody! Peabody!" with such musical energy one ceased to wonder that fields were wrested from the forest, to wave like green and golden breast-knots on the bosoms of the hills.

The fresh beauty and the healthful peace of the hour refreshed the girl like dew. The human rose lifted up her drooping head and smiled back at the blithe sunshine, as if she found the world a pleasant place, in spite of her own thorns. Presently a yellow butterfly came wandering by; and she watched it as she walked, pleasing herself with the girlish fancy that it was a symbol of herself.

At first it fluttered idly from side to side, now lighting on a purple thistle-top, then away to swing on a dewy fern; now vanishing among the low-hanging boughs overhead, then settling in the dust of the road, where a ray of light glorified its golden wings, unmindful of its lowly seat.

"Little Psyche is looking for her Cupid everywhere, as I have looked for mine. I wonder if she ever found and lost him, as I did? If she does find him again, I'll accept it as a good omen."

Full of this fancy, Rose walked quickly after her airy guide, leaving her comrades far behind. Some tenderhearted spirit surely led that butterfly, for it never wandered far away, but floated steadily before the girl, till it came at last to a wild rose-bush, full of delicate blossoms. Above it a cloud of yellow butterflies were dancing in the sun; and from among them one flew to meet and welcome the new-comer. Together they fluttered round the rosy flowers for a moment, then rose in graceful circles, till they vanished in the wood.

Rose followed them with eyes that slowly dimmed with happy tears, for the innocent soul accepted the omen and believed it gratefully.

"He will come," she said softly to herself, as she fastened a knot of wild roses in her bosom and sat down to rest and wait.

"Tired out, little girl?" asked Uncle Ben, coming up at a great pace, rather amazed at this sudden burst of energy, but glad to see it.

"No, indeed! It was lovely!" and Rose looked up with a brighter face than she had worn for weeks.

"Upon my word, I think we have hit upon the right thing at last," said Uncle Ben, aside, to Milly. "What have you been doing to get such a look as that?" he added aloud.

"Chasing butterflies," was all the answer Rose gave; for she could not tell the foolish little fancy that had comforted her so much.

"Then, my dear, I beg you will devote yourself to that amusement. I never heard it recommended, but it seems to be immensely beneficial; so keep it up, Rosy, keep it up."

"I will, sir," and on went Rose, as if in search of another one.

For an hour or two she strolled along the woody road, gathering red raspberries, with the dew still on them, garlanding her hat with fragrant LinnÆea wreaths, watching the brown brooks go singing away into the forest, and wishing the little wood creatures good-morrow, as they went fearlessly to and fro, busy with their sylvan housekeeping. At every turn of the road Rose's wistful eyes looked forward, as if hoping to see some much-desired figure approaching. At every sound of steps she lifted her head like a deer, listening and watching till the stranger had gone by; and down every green vista she sent longing looks, as if memory recalled happy hours in green nooks like those.

Presently the road wound over a bridge, below which flowed a wide, smooth river, flecked with alternate sun and shadow.

"How beautiful it is! I must float down this stream a little way. It is getting warm and I am tired, yet don't want to stop or turn back yet," said Rose; adding, as her quick eye roved to and fro: "I see a boat down there, and a lazy man reading. I'll hire or borrow it; so come on."

Away she went into the meadow, and, accosting the countryman, who lay in the shade, she made her request.

"I get my livin' in summer by rowin' folks down to the Falls. It ain't fur. Will you go, Miss?" he said, smiling all over his brown face, as he regarded the pretty vision that so suddenly appeared beside him.

Rose accepted the proposition at once; but half regretted it a minute after, for, as the man rose, she saw that he had a wooden leg.

"I'm afraid we shall be too heavy a load for you," she began, as he stumped about, preparing his boat.

The young fellow laughed and squared his broad shoulders, with a quick look, that thanked her for the pitiful glance she gave him, as he answered, in a bluff, good-natured tone,—

"Don't be afraid. I could row a dozen of you. I look rather the worse for wear; but my old mother thinks I'm about the strongest man in the State. Now, then, give us your hand, Miss, and there you are."

With that he helped her in. The others obediently followed their capricious leader, and in a moment they were floating down the river, with a fresh wind cooling their hot faces.

"You have been in the army, I take it?" began Uncle Ben, in his social way, as he watched the man pulling with long, easy strokes.

"Pretty nigh through the war, sir," with a nod and a glance at the wooden leg.

Uncle Ben lifted his hat, and Rose turned with a sudden interest from the far-off bend of the river to the honest face before her.

"Oh! tell us about it. I love to hear brave men fight their battles over," she cried, with a look half pleading, half commanding, and wholly charming.

"Sho! It ain't much to tell. No more than the rest of 'em; not so much as some. I done my best, lost my leg, got a few bullets here and there, and ain't much use any way now."

A shadow passed over the man's face as he spoke; and well it might, for it was hard to be disabled at twenty-five with a long life of partial helplessness before him. Uncle Ben, who was steering, forgot his duty in his sympathy, and regarded the wooden leg with silent interest.

Milly showed hers by keeping the mosquitoes off him by gently waving a green bough, as she sat behind him. But Rose's soft eyes shone upon him full of persuasive interest, and a new tone of respect was in her voice as she said, with a martial salute,—

"Please tell about your last battle. I had a cousin in the war, and feel as if every soldier was my friend and comrade since then."

"Thanky, Miss. I'll tell you that with pleasure, though it ain't much, any way." And, pushing back his hat, the young man rested on his oars, as he rapidly told his little tale.

"My last battle was——," naming one of the latest and bloodiest of the war. "We were doing our best, when there came a shell and scattered half-a-dozen of us pretty lively. I was knocked flat. But I didn't feel hurt, only mad, and jumped up to hit 'em agin; but just dropped, with an awful wrench, and the feeling that both my legs was gone."

"Did no one stop to help you?" cried Rose.

"Too busy for that, Miss. The boys can't stop to pick up their mates when there are Rebs ahead to be knocked down. I knew there was no more fighting for me; and just laid still, with the balls singing round me, and wondering where they'd hit next."

"How did you feel?" questioned the girl, eagerly.

"Dreadful busy at first; for every thing I'd ever said, seen, or done, seemed to go spinning through my head, till I got so dizzy trying to keep my wits stiddy that I lost 'em altogether. I didn't find 'em again till some one laid hold of me. Two of our boys were luggin' me along back; but they had to dodge behind walls and cut up and down, for the scrimmage was going on all round us. One of the fellers was hit in the shoulder and the other in the face, but not bad; and they managed to get me into a sort of a ravine, out of danger. There I begged 'em to leave me. I thought I was bleeding to death rapid, and just wanted to die in peace."

"But they didn't leave you?" And Rose's face was all alive with interest now.

"Guess they didn't," answered the man, giving a stroke or two, and looking as if he found it pleasant to tell his story to so winsome a listener. "Just as they were at their wit's end what to do with me, we come upon a young surgeon, lurking there to watch the fight or to hide,—don't know which. There he was any way, looking scared half to death. Tom Hunt, my mate, made him stop and look at me. My leg was smashed, and ought to come off right away, he said. 'Do it, then!' says Tom. He was one of your rough-and-readys, Tom was; but at heart as kind as a—well, as a woman."

And the boatman gave a smile and a nod at the one opposite him.

"Thanks; but do tell on. It is so interesting."

And Rose let all her flowers stray down into the bottom of the boat, as she clasped her hands and leaned forward to listen.

"Don't know as I'd better tell this part. It ain't pleasant," began the man.

"You must. I want it all. Dreadful things do me good, and other people's sufferings teach me how to bear my own," said Rose, in her imperious way.

"You don't look as if you ought to have any."

And the man's eyes rested on the delicate face opposite, full of a pleasant blending of admiration, pity, and protection.

"I have; but not like yours. Go on, please."

"Well, if you say so, here goes. The surgeon was worried, and said he couldn't do nothing,—hadn't got his instruments, and so on. 'Yes, you have. Out with em,' says Tom, rapping on a case he sees in the chap's breast-pocket. 'Can't do it without bandages,' he says next. 'Here they are, and more where they came from,' says Tom; and off came his shirt-sleeves, and was stripped up in a jiffy. 'I must have help,' says that confounded surgeon, dawdling round, and me groaning my life out at his feet. 'Here's help,—lots of it,' says Tom, taking my head on his arm; while Parkes tied up his wounded face and stood ready to lend a hand. Seeing no way out of it, the surgeon went to work. Good Lord, but that was awful!"

The mere memory of it made the speaker shut his eyes with a shiver, as if he felt again the sharp agony of shattered bones, rent flesh, and pitiless knife.

"Never mind that. Tell how you got comfortable again," said Milly, shaking her head at Rose.

"I wasn't comfortable for three months, ma'am. Don't mind telling about it, 'cause Tom done so well, and I'm proud of him," said the rower, with kindling eyes. "Things of that sort are hard enough done well, with chloroform and every thing handy. But laying on the bare ground, with nothing right, and a scared boy of a surgeon hacking away at you, it's torment and no mistake. I never could have stood it, if it hadn't been for Tom. He held me close and as steady as a rock; but he cried like a baby the whole time, and that did me good. Don't know why; but it did. As for Parkes, he gave out at once and went off for help. I'll never forget that place, if I live to be a hundred. Seems as if I could see the very grass I tore up; the muddy brook they laid me by; the steep bank, with Parkes creeping up; Tom's face, wet and white, but so full of pity; the surgeon, with his red hands; and all the while such a roar of guns I could hardly hear myself groaning for some one to shoot me and put me out of my misery."

"How did you get to the hospital?" asked Uncle Ben, anxious to get over this part of the story, for Rose was now as pale as if she actually saw the scene described.

"Don't know, sir. There come a time when I couldn't bear any more, and what happened then I've never been very clear about. I didn't know much for a day or two; then I was brought round by being put in a transport. I was packed with a lot of poor fellows, and was beginning to wish I'd stayed queer, till I heard Tom's voice saying, 'Never mind, boys; put me down anywheres, and tend to the others. I can wait.' That set me up. I sung out, and they stowed him alongside. It was so dark down there I could hardly see his face; but his voice and ways were just as hearty and comforting as ever, and he kept up my spirits wonderful that day. I was pretty weak, and kept dozing off; but whenever I woke I felt for Tom, and he was always there. He told me, when Parkes came with help, he saw me off, and then went back for another go at the Rebs; but got a ball in the breast, and was in rather a bad way, he guessed. He couldn't lay down; but sat by me, leaning back, with his hand on my pillow, where I could find it easy. He talked to me all he could, till his voice give out; for he got very weak, and there was a dreadful groaning all around us."

"I know, I know. I went aboard one of those transports to help; but couldn't stay, it was so terrible," said Uncle Ben, with a groan at the mere memory of it.

"That was a long day, and I thought it was my last; for when night came I felt so gone I reckoned I was 'most over Jordan. I gave my watch to Tom as a keepsake, and told him to say good-by to the boys for me. I hadn't any folks of my own, so it wasn't hard to go. Tom had a sweetheart, an old mother, and lots of friends; but he didn't repine a word,—only said: 'If you do pull through, Joel, just tell mother I done my best, and give Hetty my love.' I promised, and dropped asleep, holding on to Tom as if he was my sheet-anchor. So he was; but I can't tell all he done for me in different ways."

For a minute Joel rowed in silence, and no one asked a question. Then he pushed up his old hat again, and went on, as if anxious to be done.

"Soon's ever I woke, next morning, I looked round to thank Tom, for his blanket was over me. He was sitting as I left him, his hand on my pillow, his face toward me, so quiet and happy-looking I couldn't believe he was gone. But he was, and I have had no mate since."

"Where did he live?" asked Rose, as softly as if speaking of one she had known and loved.

"Over yonder." And Joel pointed to a little brown house on the hillside.

"Are his mother and Hetty there?"

"Hetty married a number of years ago; but the old lady is there."

"And you are visiting her?"

"I live with her. You see Tom was all she had; and, when Hetty left, it was only natural that I tried to take Tom's place. Can't never fill it of course; but I do what I can, and she's comfortable."

"So she is the 'old mother' who thinks so much of you? Well she may," said Rose, giving him her brightest smile.

"Yes, she's all I've got now. Couldn't do no less, could I, seein' how much Tom done for me?" answered the man, with a momentary quiver of emotion in his rough voice.

"You're a trump!" said Uncle Ben, emphatically.

"Thanky, sir. Starboard, if you please. I don't care to get into the rapids just here."

Joel seemed to dislike telling this part of the story; but the three listeners beamed upon him with such approving faces that he took to his oars in self-defence, rowing with all his might, till the roar of the Fall was faintly heard.

"Now, where shall I land you, sir?"

"Let us lunch on the island," proposed Rose.

"I see a tent, and fancy some one is camping there," said Milly.

"A lot of young fellows have been there this three days," said Joel.

"Then we will go on, and take to the grove above the Fall," ordered Uncle Ben.

Alas! alas! for Rose. That decision delayed her happiness a whole half day; for on that island, luxuriously reading "The Lotus Eaters," as he lay in the long grass, was the Gabriel this modern Evangeline was waiting for. She never dreamed he was so near. And the brown-bearded student never lifted up his head as the boat floated by, carrying the lady of his love.

"I want to give him more than his fare. So I shall slip my cigar-case into the pocket of this coat," whispered Uncle Ben, as Joel was busy drawing up the boat and getting a stone or two to facilitate the ladies' landing dryshod.

"I shall leave my book for him. He was poring over an old newspaper, as if hungry for reading. The dash and daring of 'John Brent' will charm him; and the sketch of Winthrop's life in the beginning will add to its value, I know." And, hastily scribbling his name in it, Rose slipped the book under the coat.

But Milly, seeing how old that coat was, guessed that Joel gave his earnings to the old woman to whom he dutifully played a son's part. Writing on a card "For Tom's mother and mate," she folded a five-dollar bill round it, fastened it with a little pearl cross from her own throat, and laid it in the book.

Then all landed, and, with a cordial hand-shake and many thanks, left Joel to row away, quite unconscious that he was a hero in the pretty girl's eyes, till he found the tokens of his passengers' regard and respect.

"Now that is an adventure after my own heart," said Rose, as they rustled along the grassy path toward the misty cloud that hung over the Fall.

"We have nothing but sandwiches and sherry for lunch, unless we find a house and add to our stores," said Uncle Ben, beginning to feel hungry and wondering how far his provisions would go.

"There is a little girl picking berries. Call her and buy some," suggested Milly, who had her doubts about the state of the sandwiches, as the knapsack had been sat upon.

A shout from Uncle Ben caused the little girl to approach,—timidly at first; but, being joined by a boy, her courage rose, and when the idea of a "trade" was impressed upon their minds fear was forgotten and the Yankee appeared.

"How much a quart?"

"Eight cents, sir."

"But that birch-bark thing is not full."

"Now it is," and the barefooted, tow-headed lad filled the girl's pannier from his own.

"Here's chivalry for you," said Rose, watching the children with interest; for the girl was pretty, and the boy evidently not her brother.

"You don't pick as fast as she does," said Milly, while Uncle Ben hunted up the money.

"He's done his stent, and was helpin' me. I'll have to pick a lot before I git my quarter," said the girl, defending her friend, in spite of her bashfulness.

"Must you each make a quarter?"

"Yes'm. We don't have to; but we wanter, so we can go to the circus that's comin' to-morrer. He made his'n ketchin' trout; so he's helpin' me," explained the girl.

"Where do you get your trout?" asked Uncle Ben, sniffing the air, as if he already smelt them cooking.

"In the brook. I ain't sold mine yet. Want to buy 'em? Six big ones for a quarter," said the boy, seeing hunger in the good man's eye and many greenbacks in the corpulent purse.

"Yes, if you'll clean them."

"But, Uncle, we can't cook them," began Milly.

"I can. Let an old campaigner alone for getting up a gipsy lunch. You wanted a surprise; so I'll give you one. Now, Billy, bring on your fish."

"My name is Daniel Webster Butterfield Brown," returned the boy, with dignity; adding, with a comical change of tone: "Them fish is cleaned, or you'd a got 'em cheaper."

"Very well. Hand them over."

Off ran the boy to the brook; and the girl was shyly following, when Rose said,—

"Will you sell me that pretty bark pannier of yours? I want one for my flowers."

"No'm. I guess I'd ruther not."

"I'll give you a quarter for it. Then you can go to the circus without working any more."

"Dan made this for me, real careful; and I couldn't sell it, no way. He wouldn't go without me. And I'll pick stiddy all day, and git my money. See if I don't!" answered the child, hugging her treasure close.

"Here's your romance in the bud," said Uncle Ben, trying not to laugh.

"It's beautiful!" said Rose, with energy. "What is your name, dear?"

"Gusty Medders, please'm."

"Dan isn't your brother?"

"No'm. He lives to the poor-house. But he's real smart, and we play together. And him and me is going to the show. He always takes care o' me; and my mother thinks a sight of him, and so do I," returned the child, in a burst of confidence.

"Happy little Gusty!" said Rose, to herself.

"Thrice happy Dan," added Uncle Ben, producing the fat pocket-book again, with the evident intention of bestowing a fortune on the small couple.

"Don't spoil the pretty little romance. Don't rob it of its self-sacrifice and simplicity. Let them earn their money. Then they will enjoy it more," cried Milly, holding his hand.

Uncle Ben submitted, and paid Dan his price, without adding a penny.

"The lady wanted to buy my basket. But I didn't sell it, Danny; 'cause you give it as a keepsake," they heard Gusty say, as the children turned away.

"Good for you, Gus; but I'll sell mine." And back came Dan, to dispose of his for the desired quarter. "Now we're fixed complete, and you needn't pick a darned berry. We've got fifty cents for the show, and eight, over for peanuts and candy. Won't we have a good time, though?"

With which joyful remark Dan turned a somersault, and then the little pair vanished in the wood, with shining faces, to revel in visions of the splendors to come.

"Now you have got your elephant, what are you going to do with him?" asked Rose, as they went on again,—she with her pretty basket of fruit, and he with a string of fish wrapped in leaves.

"Come on a bit, and you will see."

Uncle Ben led them to the shade of a great maple, on a green slope, in sight of the noisy Fall, leaping from rock to rock, till the stream went singing away through wide, green meadows below.

"Now rest and cool yourselves, while I cook the dinner." And away bustled the good man, on hospitable thoughts intent.

Plenty of dry drift-wood lay about the watercourse, and soon a brisk fire burned on the rocks not far away. Shingles for plates, with pointed sticks for forks, seemed quite in keeping with the rustic feast; and when the edibles were set forth on leaves the girls were charmed, and praised the trout, as it came hot from the coals, till even the flushed cook was satisfied.

"I'd like to live so always. It is so interesting to pick up your food as you go, and eat it when and where you like. I think I could be quite happy leading a wild life like this," said Rose, as she lay in the grass, dropping berries one by one into her mouth.

"You would soon tire of it, Miss Caprice; but, if it amuses for a single day, I am satisfied," answered Milly, with her motherly smile, as she stroked the bright head in her lap, feeling sure that happiness was in store for so much youth and beauty.

Lulled by the soft caress, and the song of the waterfall, Rose fell asleep, and for an hour dreamed blissfully, while the maple dropped its shadows on her placid face, and all the wholesome influences of the place worked their healing spell on soul and body.

"A thunder-shower is rolling up in the west, my dears. We must be getting toward some shelter, unless we are to take a drenching as part of the day's pleasure," said Uncle Ben, rising briskly after his own nap.

"I see no house anywhere; but a big barn down in the intervale, and a crowd of people getting in their hay. Let us make for that, and lie on the sweet haycocks till the shower comes," proposed Milly.

As they went down the steep path, Rose began to sing; and at the unwonted sound her uncle and friend exchanged glances of satisfaction, for not a note had she sung for weeks. A happy mood seemed to have taken possession of her; and when they reached the intervale she won the old farmer's heart by catching up a rake and working stoutly, till the first heavy drops began to fall. Then she rode up to the barn on a fragrant load, and was so charmed with the place that she declined his invitation to "Come up and see the old woman and set a spell," and declared that she depended on enjoying the thunder-storm where she was.

The farmer and his men went their way, and Rose was just settling herself at the upper window, where the hay had been pitched in, when a long line of gay red vans came rattling down the road, followed by carriages and gilded cars, elephants and camels, fine horses and frisky ponies, all more or less excited by the coming storm.

"It's the circus! How I wish Gusty and Dan could see it!" cried Rose, clapping her hands like a child. "I do believe they are coming here. Now that will be charming, and the best adventure of all," she added, as a carriage and several vans turned into the grassy road leading to the barn.

A pair of elephants slowly lumbered after, with a camel or two, and the finest gilded car. The rest rattled on, hoping to reach the town in time. In a moment the quiet country scene was changed, and the big barn transformed into a theatrical Babel.

Our party retreated to a loft, and sat looking down on the show, enjoying it heartily; especially Rose, who felt as if suddenly translated into an Eastern tale. The storm came on dark and wild, rain poured, thunder rolled, and lightning gave lurid glimpses of the strange surroundings.

The elephants placidly ate hay; the tired camels lay down with gusty sighs and queer groanings; but the lion in his lonely van roared royally at intervals, and the tigers snarled and tore about their cage like restless demons.

The great golden car lit up the gloom; and in it sat, or lay, the occupants of the carriage,—a big, dark man, and a little blonde creature, with a pretty, tired, painted face. Rose soon found herself curiously attracted to this pair, for they were evidently lovers; and there was a certain frank, melodramatic air about them that took her fancy. The dark man lay on the red cushion, smoking tranquilly; while the girl hovered about him with all manner of small attentions. Presently he seemed to drop asleep, undisturbed by the thunder without or the clamor within. Then the small creature smoothed her gay yet shabby dress, and braided up her hair, as composedly as if in her own room. That done, she looked about her for amusement; and, spying Rose's interested face peering down at her from above, she nodded, and called out, in a saucy voice,—

"How do you like us? Shall I come up and make you a visit?"

"I beg you will," answered Rose, in spite of a warning touch from Milly.

Up sprang the little circus-rider; and, disdaining the ladder, skipped to the gilded dome of the car, and then took a daring leap on to the loft, landing near them with a laugh.

For a minute she eyed the others with a curious mixture of coolness and hesitation, as if it suddenly struck her that they were not country girls, to be dazzled by her audacity. Milly saw and understood the pause, liked the girl for it, and said, as courteously as if to a lady in her own parlor,—

"There is plenty of room for us all. Pray sit down and enjoy this fine view with us. The storm is passing over now, and it will soon be fair."

"Thank you!" said the girl, dropping on to the hay, with her bold, bright eyes, full of admiration, fixed on Rose, who smiled, and said quickly,—

"You belong to the troop, I suppose?"

"First lady rider," replied the girl, with a toss of the head.

"It must be very romantic to lead such a life, and go driving from place to place in this way."

"It's a hard life, any way; and not much romance, you'd better believe."

"Not even for you." And Rose glanced at the sleeper below.

The girl smiled. Her bold eyes turned to him with a softened look, and the natural color deepened on her painted cheeks, as she said, in a lower voice,—

"Yes, Joe does make a difference for me. We've only been married three weeks."

"What does he do?"

"He's the lion-tamer." And the girl gave them a glance of wifely pride in her husband's prowess.

"Oh! tell me about it!" cried Rose. "I admire courage so much."

"You ought to see him do Daniel in the lion's den, then. Or his great tiger act, where he piles four of 'em up, and lays on top. It's just splendid!"

"But very dangerous! Does he never fear them? And do they never hurt him?"

"He don't fear any thing in the world," said the girl, entirely forgetting herself, in enthusiastic praise of her husband.

"CÆsar, the lion, loves him like a dog; and Joe trusts him as he does me. But them tigers are deceitful beasts, and can't be trusted a minute. Judas went at Joe once, and half killed him. He seems tame enough now; but I hate him, for they say that if a tiger once tastes a man's blood he's sure to kill him sooner or later. So I don't have a minute's peace when Joe is in that cage." And the little woman shivered with very genuine anxiety at the thought of her husband's danger.

"And, knowing this, he runs the risk every day! What a life!" said Uncle Ben, looking down at the unconscious Joe.

"A brave life, Uncle, and full of excitement. The minutes in that cage must be splendid. I wish I could see him once!" cried Rose, with the restless look in her eyes again.

"He'd do it, if he had his things here. He'll do any thing I ask him," said the girl, evidently proud of her power over the lion-tamer.

"We will come and see him to-morrow. Can't you tell us how he manages to subdue these wild animals? I always wanted to know about it," said Rose, wondering if she could not get some hints for the taming of men.

"Joe'll tell you." And, calling from her perch, the girl waked the sleeper and ordered him up to amuse the gentle-folk.

The big man came, with comical meekness; and, lounging on the hay, readily answered the questions showered upon him. Rose enjoyed that hour intensely; for the tales Joe told were full of wild adventure, hair-breadth escapes, and feats of strength or skill, that kept his listeners half breathless with interest. The presence of the little wife gave an added charm to these stories; for it was evident that the tamer of lions was completely subdued by the small woman. His brown, scarred face softened as it turned to her. While he talked, the strong hands that clutched lions by the throat were softly stroking the blonde head at his side; and, when he told of the fierce struggle with Judas, he grew so eloquent over the account of Kitty's nursing him that it was plain to see he was prouder of the conquest of her girl's heart than of his hard-won victory over the treacherous tiger.

The man's courage lent romance to his vulgar life, and his love ennobled his whole nature for a time. Kitty ate peanuts while he thrilled his hearers with his feats; but her face was so full of pride and affection all the while that no one minded what she did, and even Milly forgave the painted cheeks and cotton velvet dress for the sake of the womanly heart underneath.

The storm passed, the circus people bestirred themselves, and in a few minutes were on their way again. Joe and Kitty said "Good-by" as heartily as if that half-hour had made them friends; and, packing themselves into the little carriage drawn by the calico tandem, dashed away as gayly as if their queer honeymoon journey had just begun. Like parts of a stage pageant, the gilded car, the elephants and camels, frisky ponies, and gay red vans vanished along the winding road, leaving the old barn to silence and the scandalized swallows twittering among the rafters.

"I feel as if I'd been to an Arabian Night's entertainment," said Rose, as they descended and turned toward home.

"It was very interesting, and I do hope that brave Joe won't get eaten up by the tigers. What would poor Kitty do?" returned Milly, warmly.

"It would be sad and dreadful; but she would have the comfort of knowing how much he loved her. Some women don't even have that," added Rose, under her breath.

"A capital fellow and a nice little woman. We'll go and see them to-morrow; though I fancy I shall not like Mrs. Kitty half so well in gauze and spangles, jumping through hoops and over banners on horseback, as I did on the hayloft. And I shall be desperately anxious till Joe is safely out of the tiger's cage," said Uncle Ben, who had been as interested as a boy in the wild tales told them.

For an hour they walked back along the river-side, enjoying the wood odors brought out by the shower, the glories of the sunset sky, and the lovely rainbow that arched overhead,—a bow of promise to those who seemed passing under it from the old life to a new one, full of tender promise.

"I see a nice old woman in that kitchen, and I want to stop and ask for some new milk. Perhaps she will give us our supper, and then we can go on by moonlight," said Rose, as they came to a weather-beaten farm-house, standing under an ancient elm, with its door hospitably open, and a grandmotherly figure going to and fro within.

Rose's request was most graciously received, for the old woman seemed to regard them as most welcome cheerers of her solitude, and bustled about with an infectious cordiality that set them at their ease directly.

"Do tell! Caught in the shower? It come so suddin', I mistrusted some folks would get a duckin'. You kin hev supper jest as wal as not. 'Tain't a mite o' trouble, ef you don't mind plain vittles. Enos and me lives alone, and he ain't no gret of an eater; but I allers catle'ate to hev a good store of pervision on hand this time a year, there's such a sight of strangers round the mountains. The table's all set; and I'll jest add a pinch of tea and a couple of pies, and there we be. Now draw right up, and do the best you kin."

The cheery old soul was so hospitable that her presence gave a grace to her homely table and added flavor to her plain fare. Uncle Ben's eyes twinkled when he saw dainty Rose eating brown-bread and milk out of a yellow bowl, with the appetite of a dairymaid; and Milly rejoiced over the happy face opposite; wishing that it might always wear that self-forgetful look.

Enos was a feeble, bed-ridden, old man, who lay in a small room opening from the kitchen. A fretful invalid he seemed to be, hard to suit and much given to complaint. But the tender old wife never lost patience with him; and it was beautiful to see how cheerfully she trotted to and fro, trying to gratify every whim, without a reproachful word or thought of weariness.

After tea, as Rose wanted to wait till moonrise, Uncle Ben went in to chat with the invalid, while Milly insisted on wiping the cups for the old lady; and Rose sat on the doorstep, listening to their chat, and watching twilight steal softly up the valley. Presently her attention was fixed by something the old lady said in answer to Milly's praises of the quaint kitchen.

"Yes, dear, I've lived here all my days. Was born in that bed-room; and don't ask no better than to die there when my time comes."

"Most people are not fortunate enough to keep their old home when they marry. It must be very dear to you, having spent both your maiden and married life here," said Milly, interested in her hostess.

"Wal, you see my maiden life lasted sixty year; and my married life ain't but jest begun," answered the old lady, with a laugh as gay as a girl's.

Seeing curiosity in the quick glance Rose involuntarily gave her, the chatty old soul went on, as if gossip was dear to her heart, and her late-coming happiness still so new that she loved to tell it.

"I s'pose that sounds sing'lar to you young things; but, you see, though me and Enos was engaged at twenty or so, we warn't married till two year ago. Things was dreadful con'try, and we kep a waitin' and a waitin', till I declare for't I really did think I should die an old maid." And she laughed again, as if her escape was the best joke in the world.

"And you waited forty years?" cried Rose, with her great eyes full of wonder.

"Yes, dear. I had other chances; but somehow they didn't none of them suit, and the more unfort'nate Enos was the more I kinder held on to him. He was one of them that's allers tryin' new things, and didn't never seem to make a fortin out of any on 'em. He kept a tryin' because he had nothin', and would'nt marry till he was wal off. My mother was dead, and left a family to be took care on. I was the oldest gal, and so I nat'rally kept house for father till he died, and the children grew up and married off. So I warn't idle all them years, and got on first-rate, allers hopin' Enos's luck would turn. But it didn't (them cups goes in the right-hand corner, dear); and so I waited and waited, and hoped and hoped."

"Oh! how could you?" sighed Rose, from the soft gloom of the doorway.

"'Pears to me strength is give us most wonderful to bear trials, if we take 'em meek. I used to think I couldn't bear it no way when I was left here alone, while Enos was in Californy; and I didn't know for seven year whether he was dead or alive. His folks give him up; but I never did, and kept on hopin' and prayin' for him till he come back."

"How happy you were then!" cried Rose, as if she could sympathize heartily with that joy.

"No, I warn't, dear. That was the hardest part on't; for Enos was married to a poor, shiftless thing, that was a burden to him for ten year."

"That was hard," and Rose gave a groan, as if a new trouble had suddenly come upon her.

"I done my best for 'em, in their ups and downs, till they went West. Then I settled down to end my days here alone. My folks was all dead or fur away, and it was uncommon lonesome. But I kinder clung to the old place, and had it borne in upon me strong that Enos would turn up agin in time. I wanted him to find me here, ready to give him a helpin' hand whenever and however he come."

"And he did, at last?" asked Rose, with a sympathetic quiver in her voice that went to the old woman's heart.

"Yes, my deary; he did come at last," she said, in a voice full of a satisfaction that was almost solemn in its intensity. "Ruther mor'n two years ago he knocked at that door, a poor, broken-down old man, without wife, or child, or money, or home,—nothin' in the wide world but me. He didn't think I'd take him in, he was so mis'able. But, Lord love him, what else had I been a waitin' for them forty year? It warn't the Enos that I loved fust; but that didn't matter one mite. And when he sat sobbin' in that chair, and sayin' he had no friend but me, why I just answered back: 'My home is your'n, Enos; and I give it jest as hearty as I did when you fust pupposed, under the laylock bushes, in the back gardin. Rest here, my poor dear, and let Becky take care on you till she dies.'"

"So he stayed?" said Milly, with tears in her voice, for Rose's head was down on her knees, so eloquent had been the pathos of that old voice, telling its little tale of faithful love.

"Certin. And we was married, so no one need make no talk. Folks said it was a dreadful poor match, and took on about my doin' on't; for I'm wal off, and Enos hadn't a cent. But we was satisfied, and I ain't never repented of that day's work; for he took to his bed soon after, and won't quit it, the doctor says, till he's took to his grave."

"You dear soul, I must kiss you for that lovely deed of yours, and thank you from my heart for this lesson in fidelity." And, obeying an irresistible impulse, Rose threw her arms round the old lady's neck, kissing the wrinkled cheek with real reverence and tenderness.

"Sakes alive! Wal, I never did see sech a softhearted little creter. Why, child, what I done warn't nothin' but a pleasure. We women are such queer things, we don't care how long we wait, ef we only hev our way at last."

As she spoke, the old woman hugged the blooming girl with a motherly warmth, most sweet and comfortable to see; yet the longing look, the lingering touch, betrayed how much the tender old heart would have loved to pillow there a child of its own.

Just then Uncle Ben appeared, and the early moon peeped over the mountain-top, plainly hinting that it was time for the wanderers to turn homeward. Bidding their hospitable hostess good night, they came again into the woody road, now haunted with soft shadows and silvery with falling dew. The brown brooks were singing lullabies, the pines whispering musically in the wind, the mellow moonlight was falling everywhere, and the world was full of the magical beauty of a midsummer's night.

"Go on, please, and let me follow alone. I want to think over my pleasant day, and finish it with waking dreams, as I go through this enchanted wood," said Rose, whose mind was full of sweet yet sober thoughts; for she had gathered herbs of grace while carelessly pulling wayside flowers, and from the simple adventures of the day had unconsciously received lessons that never were forgotten.

The other walked on, and the girl followed, living over again the happy winter during which she had learned to know and love the young neighbor who had become the hero of her dreams. She had felt sure he loved her, though the modest youth had never told her so, except with eloquent glances and tender devotion. She believed in him, loved him truly, and waited with maidenly patience to hear the words that would unseal her lips. They did not come, and he had left her with no hope but such as she could find in the lingering pressure of his hand and the warmly uttered "I shall see you again."

Since then, no line, no word; and all through the lovely spring she had looked and waited for the brown-bearded student,—looked and waited in vain. Then unrest took possession of her, anxiety tormented her, and despair made her young face pathetic. Only the sad, simple old story, but as bitter to live through now as in poor Dido's day; more bitter, perhaps, because we cannot erect funeral pyres and consume the body with a flame less fierce than that which burns away the soul unseen.

Now in the silence of that summer night a blessed peace seemed to fall on the girl's unquiet heart, as she trod thoughtfully along the shadowy road. Courage and patience seemed to spring up within her. To wait and hope and love without return became a possibility; and, though a few hot tears rolled down the cheeks, that had lost their roses, the eyes that shed them were more tender for the tears, and the heart that echoed the old wife's words—"Strength is given us to bear our trials, if we take them meekly"—was worthier of life's best blessing, love, because of its submission.

As she paused a moment to wipe away the tell-tale drops, before she joined the others, the sound of far-off music came on the wings of the wind,—a man's voice, singing one of the love-lays that are never old. As if spell-bound, Rose stood motionless in the broad streak of light that fell athwart the road. She knew the voice, the sweet old song seemed answering her prayer, and now it needed no golden butterfly to guide her to her lover.

Nearer and nearer came the singer, pouring out his lay as if his heart was in it. Brighter and brighter glowed the human rose, as the featherless nightingale told his tale in music, unconsciously approaching the happy sequel with each step.

Out from the gloom he came, at last; saw her waiting for him in the light; seemed to read the glad truth in her face, and stretched both hands to her without a word. She took them; and what followed who shall say? For the moon, best friend of lovers, discreetly slipped behind a cloud, and the pines whispered their congratulations as they wrapped the twain in deepest shadow.

When, half an hour later, they joined the other pair (who, strange to say, had quite forgotten their charge), Uncle Ben exclaimed, as he welcomed the new-comer with unusual cordiality: "Why, Rose! You look quite glorified in this light and as well as ever. We must try this cure again."

"No need, sir. I have done with the heartache, and here is my physician," answered Rose, with a look at her lover which told the story better than the best chosen words.

"And here is mine," echoed Milly, leaning on Uncle Ben's arm as if it belonged to her; as it did, for the moonlight had been too much for the old bachelor, and, in spite of his fifty years, he had wooed and won Milly as ardently as any boy. So the lonely future she had accepted so cheerfully suddenly bloomed with happy hopes; and the older couple looked as blissfully content as the young pair, who greeted with the blithest laughter that ever woke the echoes of the wood, this fit ending to the romance of a summer day.