t too elastic, of a
buoyance almost insolent--she turned, as it were, too round a cheek to
Fate. In her clear purity romanticism held no part, and her soul, strong
to adhere, was slow to conform. Her nature was straight as an arrow that
would not fall though it overshot the mark. She dreamed scant dreams of
the future because she clove tenaciously to the past--to the rare
associations and the old affections--to the road and the cedars and the
Hall as to the men and women whose blood she bore and whose likeness she
carried. She loved one and all with a fidelity that did not swerve.
Riding home along the open road that led to the cedars, she marked each
friendly object in its turn--on one side the persimmon tree where the
fruit ripened--on the other the blackened wreck of the giant oak,
towering above the shining spread of life-everlasting. She noted that
the rail fence skirting the pasture sagged at one corner beneath a
weight of poisonous oak, that a mud hole had eaten through the short
strip of "corduroy" road, and that where Uncle Ish's path led to his
cabin the plank across the gully was rapidly rotting. She saw these
things with the tender eyes with which we mark decay in one beloved.

Then, pacing up the avenue to the gravelled walk, she would call
"good-morning" to the general and leap lightly to the ground, fresh as
the day, bright as the autumn.

It was on one of these early rides that she saw Nicholas again. She was
returning leisurely through the stretch of woodland, when, catching
sight of him as he swung vigorously ahead, she quickened her horse's
pace and overtook him as he glanced inquiringly back.

"Divide the worm, early bird," she cried gaily.

He paused as she did, laying his hand on the horse's neck.

"There wasn't but one and you got it," he retorted lightly. "Have you
been far?"

"Miles, and I'm as hungry as two bears. Have you anything in your
pocket?"

Her glowing face rose against a background of maple boughs, which
surrounded her like a flame. The mist of the morning was on her lips and
her eyes were shining. He felt her beauty leap like wine to his brain,
and he set his teeth and looked blankly down the road.

She laughed as she plunged her hand into the pocket of his coat. "You
used to have apples," she complained, "or honeyshucks, at least--now
there's only this."

It was a worn little Latin text book, with frayed edges and soiled
leaves.

"Give it to me," he said quickly, but as