ddenly she made a little swoop and kissed
the brown earth itself. "And, oh! I love you, too!" she said. "I love
you, too!"

She looked like young spring's self when she stood up as Tom came towards
her. Her smile was so radiant a thing that he felt his heart quake with
no other reason than this sight of her happy youth.

"What are you thinking of, Sheba?" he asked.

"I am thinking," she said, as she glanced all about her, the smile
growing more entrancing, "I am thinking how happy I am, and how happy the
world is, and how I love you, and," with a pretty laugh, "the flowers,
and the sun, and the earth--and everything in the world!"

"Yes," said Tom, looking at her tenderly. "It's the spring, Sheba."

She caught his arm and clung to it, laughing again.

"Yes," she answered; "and when it isn't the spring, it is the summer; and
when it isn't the summer, it is the autumn; and when it isn't the autumn,
it is the winter; and we sit by the fire and know the spring is making
its way back every day. Everything is beautiful--everything is happy,
Uncle Tom."

"Good Lord!" exclaimed Tom.

"Why do you say that?" Sheba asked. "Why do you look so--so puzzled,
Uncle Tom?"

"Well," said Tom, holding her out at arm's length before him, "the truth
is, I've suddenly realised something. I'd like to know what I'm to do
with _this_!"

"This?" laughed Sheba. "Am I 'this'? You look at me as if I was 'this'."

"You are," Tom answered, ruefully. "Here you suddenly change to a young
woman on a man's hands. Now, what am I to do with a grown-up young woman?
I'm used to babies, and teething, and swallowing kangaroos out of Noah's
arks--and I know something of measles and letting tucks out of frocks;
but when it comes to a beautiful young woman, there you have me!"

He shook his head as he ended, and, though his face wore the
affectionate, humorous smile which had never failed her, there was a new
element in its kindness which, it must be confessed, bordered on
bewilderment.

"A beautiful, grown-up young woman," he said, glancing reflectively over
her soft, swaying slimness, her white frock with its purple ribbon and
golden jonquils, and up to her tender cheek.

Sheba blushed with sweet delight.

"Am I beautiful, Uncle Tom?" she inquired, with a lovely anxiousness in
her eyes.

"Yes, you are," admitted Tom; "and it isn't a drawback to you, Sheba, but
it's likely to make trouble for me."

"But why?" she said.

"In novels, and poe