everlastin'ly poke fun at him, but they never said a word. I

guess his eyes flashed, for he come out the screen door, slammin'

it after him, and stalked by me as if he was too worked up to

notice anything or anybody. I didn't foiler him, for his long

legs git over the ground too fast for me, but thinks I, 'Mebbe

I'll hev some use for my lemonade-set after all.'"

"I hope to the land you will," responded Mrs. Wiley, "for I'm

about sick o' movin' it round when I sweep under my bed. And I

shall be glad if Rose an' Stephen do make it up, for Wealthy Ann

Brooks's gossip is too much for a Christian woman to stand."


Where was the pale Rose, the faded Rose, that crept noiselessly

down from her room, wanting neither to speak nor to be spoken to!

Nobody ever knew. She vanished forever, and in her place a thing

of sparkles and dimples flashed up the stairway and closed the

door softly. There was a streak of moonshine lying across the

bare floor, and a merry ghost, with dressing-gown held prettily

away from bare feet, danced a gay fandango among the yellow

moonbeams. There were breathless flights to the open window, and

kisses thrown in the direction of the River Farm. There were

impressive declamations at the looking-glass, where a radiant

creature pointed to her reflection and whispered, "Worthless

little pig, he loves you, after all!"

Then, when quiet joy had taken the place of mad delight, there

was a swoop down upon the floor, an impetuous hiding of brimming

eyes in the white counterpane, and a dozen impassioned promises

to herself and to something higher than herself, to be a better


The mood lasted, and deepened, and still Rose did not move. Her

heart was on its knees before Stephen's faithful love, his

chivalry, his strength. Her troubled spirit, like a frail boat

tossed about in the rapids, seemed entering a quiet harbor, where

there were protecting shores and a still, still evening star.

Her sails were all torn and drooping, but the harbor was in

sight, and the poor little weather-beaten craft could rest in


A period of grave reflection now ensued,--under the bedclothes,

where one could think better. Suddenly an inspiration seized

her,--an inspiration so original, so delicious, and above all

so humble and praiseworthy, that it brought her head from her

pillow, and she sat bolt upright, clapping her hands like a


"The very thing!" she whispered to herself gleefully. "It will

take courage, but I'm sure of my ground after what he said before

them all, and I'll do it. Grandma in Biddeford buying church

carpets, Stephen in Portland--was ever such a chance?"

The same glowing Rose came downstairs, two steps at a time, next

morning, bade her grandmother good-by with suspicious pleasure,

and sent her grandfather away on an errand which, with attendant

conversation, would consume half the day. Then bundles after

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