ltation of Sylvia's face, and for a moment she was both piqued
and petulant. Hot, tired, disappointed, and, hardest of all, laughed at,
it was one of those times that try girls' souls. But she was too old to
cry, too proud to complain, too well-bred to resent, so the little gust
passed over unseen, she thought, and joining in the merriment she said,
as she knelt down beside the wreck--

"This is a practical illustration of the old proverb, and I deserve it
for my boasting. Next time I'll try to combine strength and beauty in my
work."

To wise people character is betrayed by trifles. Warwick stopped
laughing, and something about the girlish figure in the grass,
regathering with wounded hands the little harvest lately lost, seemed to
touch him. His face softened suddenly as he collected several broad
leaves, spread them on the grass, and sitting down by Sylvia, looked
under her hat-brim with a glance of mingled penitence and friendliness.

"Now, young philosopher, pile up your berries in that green platter
while I repair the basket. Bear this in mind when you work in bark: make
your handle the way of the grain, and choose a strip both smooth and
broad."

Then drawing out his knife he fell to work, and while he tied green
withes, as if the task were father to the thought, he told her something
of a sojourn among the Indians, of whom he had learned much concerning
their woodcraft, arts, and superstitions; lengthening the legend till
the little canoe was ready for another launch. With her fancy full of
war-trails and wampum, Sylvia followed to the river-side, and as they
floated back dabbled her stained fingers in the water, comforting their
smart with its cool flow till they swept by the landing-place, when she
asked, wonderingly--

"Where are we going now? Have I been so troublesome that I must be taken
home?"

"We are going to get a third course to follow the berries, unless you
are afraid to trust yourself to me."

"Indeed, I'm not; take me where you like, sir."

Something in her frank tone, her confiding look, seemed to please
Warwick; he sat a moment looking into the brown depths of the water, and
let the boat drift, with no sound but the musical drip of drops from the
oars.

"You are going upon a rock, sir."

"I did that three months ago."

He spoke as if to himself, his face darkened, and he shook the hair off
his forehead with an impatient gesture. A swift stroke averted the
shock, and the boat shot