he farm-house, and the
next morning he set out on foot to visit him there.

The mountain-woods, all arrayed in their autumn foliage, were glowing
with rich, warm color. Silvery cloud-banks heightened the deep blue of
the sky, and their slowly-floating shadows intensified the brightness of
the sunlight. "_Ueberall Sonnenschein!_" said the nature-loving German.
"_Ach, 's ist ein wunderschoenes Land!_"

Brent saw him enter the yard, and came to the door to meet him. The
family had dispersed soon after breakfast, and, as there was no one in
the house for him to see, Helfenstein declined going in, but stood on
the door-step, describing his journeyings in the West.

"Well," said he at last, "are you ready to start with me for New York
to-morrow morning, and for Liverpool next Monday?"

"My starting for any place out of sight of these mountains," answered
Brent, "depends chiefly on the views of a certain young woman. At
present the indications are that no such pilgrimage will ever begin."

"_Alle Wetter!_ Are you married?"

"No; but I expect to be in two weeks."

"Is it the maiden who dwells in this house?"

"The very same."

For a few moments the professor gazed in silence at the prospective
bride-groom. Besides feeling a personal interest in the case, he
considered it a good subject for psychic investigation.

"My good friend," he said, with judicial calmness, "why do you wish to
espouse Miss Reinfelter?"

Brent knew this question was not meant to be offensive, but was
propounded in a spirit of critical analysis. He was about to answer it
with a pretence of deep gravity, when Casper came around the corner of
the house and asked him where "Sister Rena" was.

"She has gone to the village," replied Brent.

As the boy turned away, his disappointment was so evident that Brent
said, "Do you want her to do anything for you, Casper?"

"No, sir," said Casper dejectedly. "I just _want_ her."

Brent smiled, and turned to the professor again.

"I couldn't find a better answer to your question if I thought for a
week," he said. "I just _want_ her."

W. W. CRANE.

MUSTER-DAY IN NEW ENGLAND.

Arms and the men we sing,--not those panoplied and helmeted according to
Virgil, nor those of our own day, armed with repeating rifles and
drum-majored into popular favor, but rather the heroes of the flint-lock
and the priming-wire in the New England of two or three generations ago,
the sturdy train-bands that have