ood over the bar of one of Cheemaun's many hotels.

And thus the tide of rural life ebbed and flowed, beating ceaselessly
against the town, leaving its impress both for good and ill, bringing
back on its waves treasure-trove to be swallowed by the deep of the
country, and often, too, carrying on its surface some of the urban
community's slime and filth.

On this May evening Champlain's Road stretched across the valley, not
white and hard, but softened by the rain, and looking like a great
broad lilac ribbon, set here and there with sparkling jewels made by
the pools of water. The sun had slipped behind the cedars of the Long
Hill and the valley was clothed in a wonderful combination of all
shades of blue--the cloak Mother Nature so often throws round her
shoulders after a shower. The towering elms, the glossy beeches, and
the spreading maples, that grew on either side of the highway, were all
bathed in the blue radiance. The old snake fences, smothered in
raspberry and alder bushes, were a deep purple, and the white rapture
of the cherry-trees and the orchards by the farm-houses had turned a
delicate lilac. The valley had taken on heaven's own blue this
evening, and smiled back at the gleaming skies with something of their
own beauty.

On every side the robins shouted their joy from the treetops, the
bob-o'-links tinkled their fairy bells as they wheeled above the
clover-fields; and from the dainty line of white-stemmed birches that
guarded the stream came the mingled even-song of the frogs and the
veeries.

There was but one pedestrian on Champlain's Road this quiet evening.
This was a small person who had just emerged from a farm gate at the
foot of the Long Hill. Back from the gate stood an old farm-house and
at its door a woman was standing. She was knitting a long gray sock,
holding her ball under her arm, knitting swiftly, even while her eyes
followed lovingly the little figure skipping along the lavender road.
The soft blue light touched her silver hair and her white apron and
turned the gray homespun dress into a royal robe of purple worthy of
the owner's wearing. The little figure danced out of sight behind a
clump of cedars and the woman turned from the doorway with a tender
smile that ended in a sigh. One evening her own little girl had passed
down the lane and along Champlain's Road to the churchyard beyond the
hills, and this little one filled somewhat the dreary space in the
mother's heart.