he accepted his aid, and lightly sprang to the damp sand of the
beach, into which her foot sank deep enough to print a pretty track.

"Look out, you will soil your shoes; shall I remove the mud?" said
Burr, taking out his handkerchief.

"No, thanks; it is only clean sand." A tuft of soft green grass
furnished a ready mat, on which she wiped her small foot, not
invisible to Burr while he modestly inspected the mussel shells and
polished pebbles washed ashore by the plashing ripples. From the beach
he picked a bone-like fragment resembling milky quartz. This he
brought to the lady, who had chosen a mossy seat on the trunk of a
fallen sycamore.

"It is a lucky-stone," she remarked. "It brings fortune."

"I will send it to Theodosia," said the finder, pocketing the
treasure.

A pensive mood had succeeded the anxious wife's elation. She gazed
across the river expectantly. Not a rowboat in sight, excepting a
skiff lying alongside the scow.

"I fear he is having needless bother. How miserable! Our slaves are a
burden, not worth the trifles they pilfer. I wish they would all run
away, then we might have an excuse for flying."

"And could you leave your earthly paradise?"

"Yes; though I am attached to the island. I should regret to lose the
trees, the river, the sky."

"Earth and sky stretch far. I sympathize with your feeling for the
place. I told your husband it was like Bunyan's Enchanted Ground.
Beulah, however, and the Delectable Mountains lie beyond the Enchanted
Ground."

"More poetry!"

"Could I make verse, I would sing of October in the Ohio Valley, or of
Indian Summer, which comes in November, don't it?"

She glanced up inquiringly. He held some leaves of pink paper covered
with writing, recognizing which, she flushed.

"How did you come by that? Did he--?"

She made a motion as if to take the paper. Burr, pretending not to see
the gesture, began to read in a low voice, infusing into the verse
more thought and sentiment than it contained. His perfect reading gave
the commonplace stanzas aesthetic effect. The authoress confessed
their merit to her secret soul.

"I am vexed that Harman gave you that. It is silly stuff."

"On the contrary, it is literature. You don't know, madam, how good it
is. I have a favor to beg; allow this poem to be printed in the _Port
Folio_. I know the editor, Jo Dennie, and shall call and give him this
copy when I reach Philadelphia. You will not deny me this pleasure?"