The rolling ground beyond the meadow, where the oaks rustled, was the point of departure of the kite—the post from which it sailed forth on its aerial voyage.

The whole affair was a success, and never did merrier hearts watch a kite.

It was beautifully made—of beautiful paper, all red, and blue and yellow—and the young girls had completely surrounded it with figures of silver paper, and decorated it, from head to foot, with flowers.

Thus, when it ascended slowly into the cerulean heavens, as said the poetical Ralph, its long, flower-decorated streamers rippling in the wind, it was greeted with loud cries of joy and admiration—thunders of applause and enthusiastic encouragement to "go on!" from Ralph, who had grown very young again—from Fanny, even more exaggerated cries.

That young lady seemed to be on the point of flying after it—the breeze seemed about to bear her away, and she clapped her hands and followed the high sailing paper-bird with such delight, that Ralph suggested she should be sent up as a messenger.

"No," said Fanny, growing a little calmer, but laughing still, "I'm afraid I should grow dizzy."

And looking at the kite, which soared far up, and seemed to be peeping from side to side, around the small white clouds, Fanny laughed more than ever.

But why should we waste our time in saying that the gay party were pleased with everything, and laughed out loudly for that reason?

Perhaps a merrier company never made the golden days of autumn ring with laughter, either at Apple Orchard, where hill and meadow echoed to the joyous carol, or in any other place. Sitting beneath the oaks, and looking to the old house buried in its beautiful golden trees, the girls sang with their pure, melodious voices, songs which made the fresh, yet dreamy autumn dearer still, and wrapped the hearts of those who listened in a smiling, calm delight. Give youth only skies and pure fresh breezes, and the ready laughter shows how happy these things, simple as they are, can make it. It wants no present beyond this; for has it not what is greater still, the radiant and rosy future, with its splendid tints of joy and rapture?

Youth! youth! Erect in the beautiful frail skiff, he dares the tide, gazing with glorious brow upon the palace in the cloud, which hovers overhead, a fairy spectacle of dreamland—real still to him! Beautiful youth! As he stands thus with his outstretched arms, the light upon his noble face, and the young lips illumined by their tender smile, who can help loving him, and feeling that more of the light of Heaven lingers on his countenance, than on the man's? Youth! youth! beautiful youth!—who, at times, does not look back to it with joyful wonder, long for it with passionate regret—for its inexperience and weakness!—its illusions and romance!—its fond trust, and April smiles and tears! Who does not long to laugh again, and, leaning over the bark's side, play with the foaming waves again, as in the old days! Beautiful youth! sailing for Beulah, the land of flowers, and landing there in dreams—how can we look upon your radiant brow and eyes, without such regret as nothing taking root in this world can console us for completely! Ah! after all, there is no philosophy like ignorance—there is no joy like youth and innocence!

The shouts and laughter ringing through the merry fields, on the fine autumn morning, may have led us into this discourse upon youth: the very air was full of laughter, and when Fanny let the kite string go by accident, the rapture grew intense.

Verty and Redbud sitting quietly, at the distance of some paces, under the oaks, looked on, laughing and talking.

"How bright Fanny is," said Redbud, laughing—"Look! I think she is lovely; and then she is as good as she can be."

"I like her," said Verty, tenderly, "because she likes you, Redbud. I like Ralph, too—don't you?"

"Oh, yes—I think he is very pleasant and agreeable; he has just come from college, and Fanny says, has greatly improved—though," whispered Redbud, bending toward Verty, and smiling, "she says, when he is present, that he has not improved; just the opposite."

Verty sighed.

The delicate little face of Redbud was turned toward him inquiringly.

"Verty, you sighed," she said.

"Did I?" said Verty.

"Yes."

Verty sighed again.

"Tell me what troubles you," said Redbud, softly.

"Nothing—nothing," replied Verty; "I was only thinking about college, you know."

"About college?"

"Yes."

And Verty repeated the sigh.

"Tell me your thoughts," said Redbud, earnestly.

"I was only thinking," returned her companion, "that there was no chance of my ever going to college, and I should like to know how I am to be a learned man without having an education."

Redbud sighed too.

"But perhaps," she said, "you might make yourself learned without going to college."

Verty shook his head.

"You are not so ignorant as you think," Redbud said, softly. "I know many persons as old as you are, who—who—are not half as—intelligent."

Verty repeated the shake of his head.

"I may know as much as the next one about hunting," he said; "and ma mere says that none of her tribe had as much knowledge of the habits of the deer. Yes! yes! that is something—to know all about life in the autumn woods, the grand life which, some day, will be told about in great poetry, or ought to be. But what good is there in only knowing how to follow the deer, or watch for the turkeys, or kill bears, as I used to before the neighborhood was filled up? I want to be a learned man. I don't think anybody would, or ought to, marry me," added Verty, sighing.

Redbud laughed, and colored.

"Perhaps you can go to college, though," she said.

"I'm afraid not," said Verty; "but I won't complain. Why should I? Besides, I would have to leave you all here, and I never could make up my mind to that."

("Let it go, Ralph!" from Fanny.

To which the individual addressed, replies:

"Oh, certainly, by all means, darling of my heart!")

Redbud smiled.

"I think we are very happy here," she said; "there cannot be anything in the Lowlands prettier than the mountains—"

"Oh! I know there is not!" exclaimed Verty, with the enthusiasm of the true mountaineer.

"Besides," said Redbud, taking advantage of this return to brighter thoughts, "I don't think learning is so important, Verty. It often makes us forget simple things, and think we are better than the rest of the world—"

"Yes," said Verty.

"That is wrong, you know. I think that it would be dearly bought, if we lost charity by getting it," said the girl, earnestly.

Verty looked thoughtful, and leaning his head on his hand, said:

"I don't know but I prefer the mountains, then. Redbud, I think if I saw a great deal of you, you would make me good—"

"Oh! I'm afraid—"

"I'd read my Bible, and think about God," Verty said.

"Don't you now, Verty?"

"Yes; I read."

"But don't you think?"

Verty shook his head.

"I can't remember it often," he replied. "I know I ought."

Redbud looked at him with her soft, kind eyes, and said:

"But you pray?"

"Sometimes."

"Not every night?"

"No."

Redbud looked pained;

"Oh! you ought to," she said.

"I know I ought, and I'm going to," said the young man; "the fact is,
Redbud, we have a great deal to be thankful for."

"Oh, indeed we have!" said Redbud; earnestly—"all this beautiful world: the sunshine, the singing of the birds, the health of our dear friends and relatives; and everything—"

"Yes, yes," said Verty, "I ought to be thankful more than anybody else."

"Why?"

"You know I'm an Indian."

Redbud looked dubious.

"At least ma mere is my mother," said Verty; "and if I am not an Indian, I don't know what I am. You know," he added, "I can't be like a deer in the woods, that nobody knows anything about."

Redbud smiled; then, after a moment's thought, said:

"I don't think you are an Indian, Verty."

And as she spoke, the young girl absently passed the coral necklace, we have spoken of, backward and forward between her lips.

Verty pondered.

"I don't know," he said, at last; "but I know it was very good in God to give me such a kind mother as ma mere; and such friends as you all. I'm afraid I am not good myself."

Redbud passed the necklace through her fingers thoughtfully.

"That is pretty," said Verty, looking at it. "I think I have seen it somewhere before."

Redbud replied with a smile:

"Yes, I generally wear it; but I was thinking how strange your life was, Verty."

And she looked kindly and softly with her frank eyes at the young man, who was playing with the beads of the necklace.

"Yes," he replied, "and that is just why I ought to be thankful. If I was somebody's son, you know, everybody would know me—but I aint, and yet, everybody is kind. I often try to be thankful, and I believe I am," he added; "but then I'm often sinful. The other day, I believe I would have shot Mr. Jinks—that was very wrong; yes, I know that was very wrong."

And Verty shook his head sadly.

"Then I am angry sometimes," he said, "though not often."

"Not very often, I know," said Redbud, softly; "you are very sweet tempered and amiable."

"Do you think so, Redbud?"

"Yes, indeed," smiled Redbud.

"I'm glad you think so; I thought I was not enough; but I have been
talking about myself too much, which, Miss Lavinia says, is wrong.
But, indeed, Redbud, I'll try and be good in future—look! there is
Fanny quarreling with Ralph!"

They rose, and approached the parties indicated, who were, however, not more quarrelsome than usual: Fanny was only struggling with Ralph for the string of the kite. The contention ended in mutual laughter; and as a horn at that moment sounded for the servants to stop work for dinner, the party determined to return to Apple Orchard.

The kite was tied to a root, and they returned homeward.