ed Mr. Cobb, who was pleased that "mother"
agreed with him about Rebecca. "I ain't sure but she's goin' to turn
out somethin' remarkable,--a singer, or a writer, or a lady doctor like
that Miss Parks up to Cornish."

"Lady doctors are always home'paths, ain't they?" asked Mrs. Cobb, who,
it is needless to say, was distinctly of the old school in medicine.

"Land, no, mother; there ain't no home'path 'bout Miss Parks--she
drives all over the country."

"I can't see Rebecca as a lady doctor, somehow," mused Mrs. Cobb. "Her
gift o' gab is what's goin' to be the makin' of her; mebbe she'll
lecture, or recite pieces, like that Portland elocutionist that come
out here to the harvest supper."

"I guess she'll be able to write down her own pieces," said Mr. Cobb
confidently; "she could make 'em up faster 'n she could read 'em out of
a book."

"It's a pity she's so plain looking," remarked Mrs. Cobb, blowing out
the candle.

"PLAIN LOOKING, mother?" exclaimed her husband in astonishment. "Look
at the eyes of her; look at the hair of her, an' the smile, an' that
there dimple! Look at Alice Robinson, that's called the prettiest child
on the river, an' see how Rebecca shines her ri' down out o' sight! I
hope Mirandy'll favor her comin' over to see us real often, for she'll
let off some of her steam here, an' the brick house'll be consid'able
safer for everybody concerned. We've known what it was to hev children,
even if 't was more 'n thirty years ago, an' we can make allowances."

Notwithstanding the encomiums of Mr. and Mrs. Cobb, Rebecca made a poor
hand at composition writing at this time. Miss Dearborn gave her every
sort of subject that she had ever been given herself: Cloud Pictures;
Abraham Lincoln; Nature; Philanthropy; Slavery; Intemperance; Joy and
Duty; Solitude; but with none of them did Rebecca seem to grapple
satisfactorily.

"Write as you talk, Rebecca," insisted poor Miss Dearborn, who secretly
knew that she could never manage a good composition herself.

"But gracious me, Miss Dearborn! I don't talk about nature and slavery.
I can't write unless I have something to say, can I?"

"That is what compositions are for," returned Miss Dearborn doubtfully;
"to make you have things to say. Now in your last one, on solitude, you
haven't said anything very interesting, and you've made it too common
and every-day to sound well. There are too many 'yous' and 'yours' in
it; you ought to say 'one' now and then, to m