cated, and I could not
mistake them. "Now what could we want better than this?" she continued.
"Here we can fish, and do everything that we want to. I say, let us camp
here on our own river. I can take you to the very spot for the tent.
Come on!" And she was so excited about it that she fairly ran.

The spot she pointed out was one we had frequently visited in our rural
walks. It was a grassy peninsula, as I termed it, formed by a sudden
turn of a creek which, a short distance below, flowed into the river.
It was a very secluded spot. The place was approached through a
pasture-field,--we had found it by mere accident,--and where the
peninsula joined the field (we had to climb a fence just there), there
was a cluster of chestnut and hickory trees, while down near the point
stood a wide-spreading oak.

"Here, under this oak, is the place for the tent," said Euphemia, her
face flushed, her eyes sparkling, and her dress a little torn by getting
over the fence in a hurry. "What do we want with your Adirondacks and
your Dismal Swamps? This is the spot for us!"

"Euphemia," said I, in as composed a tone as possible, although my whole
frame was trembling with emotion, "Euphemia, I am glad I married you!"

Had it not been Sunday, we would have set up our tent that night.

Early the next morning, old John's fifteen-dollar horse drew from
our house a wagon-load of camp-fixtures. There was some difficulty in
getting the wagon over the field, and there were fences to be taken down
to allow of its passage; but we overcame all obstacles, and reached the
camp-ground without breaking so much as a teacup. Old John helped me
pitch the tent, and as neither of us understood the matter very well,
it took us some time. It was, indeed, nearly noon when old John left us,
and it may have been possible that he delayed matters a little so as to
be able to charge for a full half-day for himself and horse. Euphemia
got into the wagon to ride back with him, that she might give some
parting injunctions to Pomona.

"I'll have to stop a bit to put up the fences, ma'am," said old John,
"or Misther Ball might make a fuss."

"Is this Mr. Ball's land?" I asked.

"Oh yes, sir, it's Mr. Ball's land."

"I wonder how he'll like our camping on it?" I said, thoughtfully.

"I'd 'a' thought, sir, you'd 'a' asked him that before you came," said
old John, in a tone that seemed to indicate that he had his doubts about
Mr. Ball.

"Oh, there'll be no troubl