mly?
Is it a tempest warring there,
Or rain-storm beating on them?

"'It is no tempest warring there,
No rain-storm beating on them,
But Charon sweeping over them,
And with him the departed.'"

"Look!" she cried, a few moments after. "There is just such a
cloud-shadow sweeping over that long hill on the left. Is it true, I
wonder? I never see those flying shadows without thinking of 'Charon
sweeping over them.' It is such a comfort, Rose, that we like the same
things, isn't it?"

"Indeed it is!" said Rose, heartily. "But, oh! Hilda dear, stop a
moment! There is some yellow clover. Why, I had no idea it grew so far
north as this!"

"Yellow clover!" repeated Hildegarde, looking about her. "Who ever heard
of yellow clover? I don't see any."

"No, dear," said Rose; "it does not grow in the sides of buggies, nor
even on stone-walls. If you could bend your lofty gaze to the ditch by
the roadside, you might possibly see it."

"Oh, there!" said Hildegarde, laughing. "Take the reins, Miss Impudence,
and I will get them." She sprang lightly out, and returned with a
handful of yellow blossoms.

"Are they really clover?" she asked, examining them curiously. "I had no
idea there were more than two kinds, red and white."

"There are eight kinds, child of the city," said Rose, "beside melilot,
which is a kind of clover-cousin. This yellow is the hop-clover. Dear
me! how it does remind me of my Aunt Caroline."

"And how, let me in a spirit of love inquire, does it resemble your Aunt
Caroline? Is she yellow?"

"She was, poor dear!" replied Rose. "She has been dead now--oh! a long
time. She was an aunt of Mother's; and once she had the jaundice, and
it seems to me she was always yellow after that. But that was not all,
Hilda. There was an old handbook of botany among Father's books, and I
used to read it a great deal, and puzzle over the long words. I always
liked long words, even when I was a little wee girl. Well, one day I was
reading, and Aunt Caroline happened to come in. She despised reading,
and thought it was an utter waste of time, and that I ought to sew or
knit all the time, since I could not help Mother with the housework. She
was very practical herself, and a famous housekeeper. So she looked at
me, and frowned, and said, 'Well, Pink, mooning away over a book as
usual? Useless rubbish! yer ma'd ought to keep ye at work.' I didn't say
anything; I never said m