his July day. All day long the air had been as bright and
clear as crystal, and the sun had sparkled on the blue waters of the
noblest of rivers without blinding the eyes with glare, or sickening the
senses with heat. Along either shore rose lofty highlands, crowned with
cool-looking forests of dark-green firs. Far to the east, like a cloud
on the horizon, the snowy cone of St. Helen's mountain stood up above
the wooded heights of the Cascade Range, with Mount Adams peeping over
its shoulder. Quite near, and partly closing off the view up the river,
was picturesque Tongue Point--a lovely island of green--connected with
the shore only by a low and narrow isthmus. From this promontory to the
point below the town, the bank of the river was curtained and garlanded
with blossoming shrubs--mock-orange, honeysuckle, spirea, _aerifolia_,
crimson roses, and clusters of elder-berries, lavender, scarlet, and
orange--everywhere, except where men had torn them away to make room for
their improvements.

Looking seaward, there was the long line of white surf which marks where
sea and river meet, miles away; with the cape and light-house tower
standing out in sharp relief against the expanse of ocean beyond, and
sailing vessels lying off the bar waiting for Rumway and his associates
to come off and show them the entrance between the sand-spits. And
nearer, all about on the surface of the sparkling river, snowy sails
were glancing in the sun, like the wings of birds that skim beside them.
It is hard, in July, to believe it has ever been December.

Perhaps Mrs. Smiley was thinking so, as from her rose-embowered
cottage-porch on the hill, not far from Captain Rumway's new house, she
watched the sun sinking in a golden glory behind the light-house and the
cape. Her school dismissed for the week, and her household tasks
completed, she was taking her repose in a great sleepy-hollow of a
chair, near enough to the roses to catch their delicate fragrance. Her
white dress looked fresh and dainty, with a rose-colored ribbon at the
throat, and a bunch of spirea; sea-foam, Willie called it, in her
gleaming, braided hair. Her great gray eyes, neither sad nor bright, but
sweetly serious, harmonized the delicate pure tones that made up her
person and her dress, leaving nothing to be desired, except, perhaps, a
suggestion of color in the clear, white oval of her cheeks. And that an
accident supplied.

For, while the sun yet sent lances of gold up out