tivated
with Great-Heart. She gave her confidence simply because she was very
young and innocent. The green tendrils of the growing vine must wind
round something.

The seasons had been changing their scenery while the events we have
told were occurring, and the loveliest days of autumn were now shining.
To those who know the "Indian summer" of our Northern States, it is
needless to describe the influence it exerts on the senses and the
soul. The stillness of the landscape in that beautiful time is as if
the planet were sleeping, like a top, before it begins to rock with the
storms of autumn. All natures seem to find themselves more truly in
its light; love grows more tender, religion more spiritual, memory sees
farther back into the past, grief revisits its mossy marbles, the poet
harvests the ripe thoughts which he will tie in sheaves of verses by his
winter fireside.

The minister had got into the way of taking frequent walks with Myrtle,
whose health had seemed to require the open air, and who was fast
regaining her natural look. Under the canopy of the scarlet, orange,
and crimson leaved maples, of the purple and violet clad oaks, of the
birches in their robes of sunshine, and the beeches in their clinging
drapery of sober brown, they walked together while he discoursed of
the joys of heaven, the sweet communion of kindred souls, the ineffable
bliss of a world where love would be immortal and beauty should never
know decay. And while she listened, the strange light of the leaves
irradiated the youthful figure of Myrtle, as when the stained window
let in its colors on Madeline, the rose-bloom and the amethyst and the
glory.

"Yes! we shall be angels together," exclaimed the Rev. Mr. Stoker. "Our
souls were made for immortal union. I know it; I feel it in every throb
of my heart. Even in this world you are as an angel to me, lifting me
into the heaven where I shall meet you again, or it will not be heaven.
Oh, if on earth our communion could have been such as it must be
hereafter! O Myrtle, Myrtle!"

He stretched out his hands as if to clasp hers between them in the
rapture of his devotion. Was it the light reflected from the glossy
leaves of the poison sumach which overhung the path that made his cheek
look so pale? Was he going to kneel to her?

Myrtle turned her dark eyes on him with a simple wonder that saw an
excess of saintly ardor in these demonstrations, and drew back from it.

"I think of heaven alwa