could find it?"

Allan Whittredge smiled at the eager face. "I can't say I care much about
it," he replied; then seeing her disappointment, he added, "It was a
handsome old ring. Should you like to have it?"

"I'd like to see it; but of course it wasn't meant for me. Cousin Betty
said--" Rosalind paused, for the expression on her uncle's face was more
than ever like Aunt Genevieve, and he exclaimed impatiently, "Stuff!"

She felt rather hurt. She had expected him to be as interested in the ring
as she was. What did he mean by "stuff"? And why didn't he like
Friendship? Rosalind fell to pondering all this, sitting in the corner of
the bench, looking down at her hands, crossed in her lap.

After some minutes' silence she felt her chin lifted until her eyes met
the gaze of the merriest brown ones, from which all trace of disdain or
impatience was gone.

"What are you thinking about so soberly? Are you disappointed in me, after
all?"

Rosalind laughed. "I am just sorry you don't like Friendship."

"Perhaps it is because I have been away so long. I used to like it when I
was a boy."

"Can't you turn into a boy again?"

"Perhaps I might, if you will show me how."

Rosalind clapped her hands. "I don't think I am a bit disappointed in you,
and I am almost sure you will like the Forest."

"What forest?"

"I'll show you the book and tell you about it sometime; and then maybe you
will join our society."

"This sounds interesting; I believe I shall like Friendship."

Rosalind surveyed him thoughtfully. "I think I'll begin by taking you to
see the magician," she said.

By what witchery did she divine that the shortest path to his boyhood was
by way of the magician's?

"The magician? Oh, that is Morgan, I suppose." Allan's eyes rested
absently on the drooping hydrangea a few feet away.

Presently a soft hand stole beneath his chin, and Rosalind demanded
merrily, as she tried to turn his face to hers, "What are you thinking
about? Are you disappointed in me?"

"Not terribly," her uncle replied, and seizing the hand he drew her to
him and gave her the kiss of friendship and good-fellowship.

Rosalind was fastidious about kisses. She reserved them for those she
loved, and received them shrinkingly from those she did not care for; but
in this short interview she had found a friend, and she returned the
caress with an ardor of affection pretty to see.

Martin, announcing lunch, interrupted their talk, and, hand i