le will who
have no especial motive for going one way rather than another; and
so it happened that after all Rosamond and Archie Mucklegrand walked
on down the bank to the river together, by themselves.

Archie's good humor returned quickly.

"I am glad they are gone; it was such a fuss having so many," he
said.

"We shall have to go back directly; they are beginning to break up,"
said Rosamond.

And then, coming out to the opening by the water, she began to talk
rather fast about the prettiness of the view, and to point out the
bridge, and the mills, and the shadow of East Hill upon the water,
and the curve of the opposite shore, and the dip of the shrubs and
their arched reflections. She seemed quite determined to have all
the talk to herself.

Archie Mucklegrand played with his stick, and twisted the end of
his moustache. Men never ought to allow themselves to learn that
trick. It always comes back upon them when it makes them look most
foolish.

Archie said nothing, because there was so much he wanted to say, and
he did not know how to begin.

He knew his mother and sister would not like it,--as long as they
could help it, certainly,--therefore he had suddenly made up his
mind that there should be no such interval. He could do as he
pleased; was he not Sir Archibald? And there was his Boston
grandfather's property, too, of which a large share had been left
outright to him; and he had been twenty-one these six months. There
was nothing to hinder; and he meant to tell Rosamond Holabird that
he liked her better than any other girl in the world. Somebody else
would be telling her so, if he didn't; he could see how they all
came round her; perhaps it might be that tall, quiet, cheeky looking
fellow,--that Kincaid. He would be before him, at any rate.

So he stood and twisted his moustache, and said nothing,--nothing, I
mean, except mere little words of assent and echo to Rosamond's
chatter about the pretty view.

At last,--"You are fond of scenery, Miss Holabird?"

Rosamond laughed.

"O yes, I suppose I am; but we don't call this scenery. It is just
pleasantness,--beauty. I don't think I quite like the word
'scenery.' It seems artificial,--got up for outside effect. And the
most beautiful things do not speak from the outside, do they? I
never travelled, Mr. Mucklegrand. I have just lived here, until I
have lived _into_ things, or they into me. I rather think it is
travelling, skimming about the world in