ng as this. I say, what a day it is! A day for the
gods--Zeus, Apollo, Diana--we ought to worship the sun!"

It was a wonderful morning. The newly risen sun sent its golden light
through the grove, brightening the deep green leaves, showing the pale
yellow in the ripening fruit; and then danced on to the river where it
lay, a limitless mass of golden mist, upon the shining stream.

As Hertha stopped and looked out over the river, Merryvale stepped to
her side. "You're as beautiful as a goddess," he said.

"Don't go, please," he cried as she moved away from from him. "Stop and
play! Let's play ball. The goddesses, you know, did that. Here, catch!"
and he threw an orange into her hands.

He was so near that she could scarcely fail to catch it, yet it slipped
from her grasp and fell to the ground where she picked it up, awkwardly
enough, and threw it back again.

He had moved away from her but was quick to catch her wavering throw.
"Better next time," he said.

She grew more expert, lost her shyness, and the ball flew back and forth
until, squeezed too hard in the man's strong hand, it collapsed into a
sticky mass of skin and pulp.

"It was extravagant of you," Hertha laughed, as she watched him wipe his
fingers. "You wouldn't let any one else waste good fruit."

"It wasn't wasted," he declared, "it gave us a good time. Isn't that a
worthy way to end life?"

She did not answer. The play over, she was self-conscious again.

"Try once more," he cried, picking another orange.

"No, no," she answered. "I must be going."

"You aren't needed yet."

"Yes I am, truly. Miss Patty is wondering why I'm not there with the hot
water."

He tossed the orange, but she dodged it and ran through the trees.
Pursuing her, in a few seconds he was at her side.

"Please don't go," he pleaded.

"I must."

"Well, promise you'll come and play again."

"Perhaps."

"Promise!"

"Perhaps," and she left him.

The blood was throbbing in his temples as he went back to his trees. He
had admired her beauty from the time he had first noticed her, three
months before, moving about his home. What must her father have been to
have given her such poise, such a delicate throat, such a pure white
skin! And her charm did not end with her face or her carriage. Her
speech was that of the white girl, not of the Negro--careful speech,
learned, as it happened, of her northern teachers. He had not
encountered her often these summer months, for