led again, doing
still more fatal damage than in the first instance. No words were
spoken, but Rose, even at ten, had less need of them than most of her
sex, for her dimples, aided by dancing eyes, length of lashes, and curve
of lips, quite took the place of conversation. The dimples tempted,
assented, denied, corroborated, deplored, protested, sympathized, while
the intoxicated beholder cudgeled his brain for words or deeds which
should provoke and evoke more and more dimples.

The storekeeper hung the molasses pail over Rose's right arm and tucked
the packages under her left, and as he opened the mosquito-netting door
to let her pass out she looked back at Stephen, perched on the kerosene
barrel, just a little girl, a little glance, a little dimple, and
Stephen was never quite the same again. The years went on, and the boy
became man, yet no other image had ever troubled the deep, placid waters
of his heart. Now, after many denials, the hopes and longings of his
nature had been answered, and Rose had promised to marry him. He would
sacrifice his passion for logging and driving in the future, and become
a staid farmer and man of affairs, only giving himself a river holiday
now and then. How still and peaceful it was under the trees, and how
glad his mother would be to think that the old farm would wake from its
sleep, and a woman's light foot be heard in the sunny kitchen!

Heaven was full of silent stars, and there was a moonglade on the water
that stretched almost from him to Rose. His heart embarked on that
golden pathway and sailed on it to the farther shore. The river was free
of logs, and under the light of the moon it shone like a silver mirror.
The soft wind among the fir branches breathed Rose's name; the river,
rippling against the shore, sang "Rose "; and as Stephen sat there
dreaming of the future, his dreams, too, could have been voiced in one
word, and that word "Rose."

VII. The Little House

The autumn days flew past like shuttles in a loom. The river reflected
the yellow foliage of the white birch and the scarlet of the maples. The
wayside was bright with goldenrod, with the red tassels of the sumac,
with the purple frost-flower and feathery clematis.

If Rose was not as happy as Stephen, she was quietly content, and
felt that she had more to be grateful for than most girls, for Stephen
surprised her with first one evidence and then another of thoughtful
generosity. In his heart of hearts