the
river, where he promised himself that he would begin to fish the
first thing to-morrow morning. He was one of those lads that grow
everywhere in England and at twelve or thirteen years of age look
as much alike as goslings--a lad with light-brown hair, cheeks of
cream and roses, full lips, indeterminate nose and eyebrows--a
physiognomy in which it seems impossible to discern anything but
the generic character of boyhood; as different as possible from
poor Maggie's phiz, which Nature seemed to have molded and colored
with the most decided intention. But that same Nature has the deep
cunning which hides itself under the appearance of openness, so
that simple people think they can see through her quite well, and
all the while she is secretly preparing a refutation of their
confident prophecies. Under these average boyish physiognomies that
she seems to turn off by the gross, she conceals some of her most
rigid, inflexible purposes, some of her most unmodifiable
characters; and the dark-eyed, demonstrative, rebellious girl may
after all turn out to be a passive being compared with this
pink-and-white bit of masculinity with the indeterminate features.

"Maggie," said Tom, confidentially, taking her into a corner as
soon as his mother was gone out to examine his box, and the warm
parlor had taken off the chill he had felt from the long drive,
"you don't know what I've got in _my_ pockets," nodding his head up
and down as a means of rousing her sense of mystery.

"No," said Maggie. "How stodgy they look, Tom! Is it marls
(marbles) or cobnuts?" Maggie's heart sank a little, because Tom
always said it was "no good" playing with _her_ at those games--she
played so badly.

"Marls! no; I've swopped all my marls with the little fellows, and
cobnuts are no fun, you silly, only when the nuts are green. But
see here!" He drew something half out of his right-hand pocket.

"What is it?" said Maggie, in a whisper. "I can see nothing but a
bit of yellow."

"Why, it's ... a ... new ... guess, Maggie."

"Oh, I _can't_ guess, Tom," said Maggie, impatiently.

"Don't be a spitfire, else I won't tell you," said Tom, thrusting
his hand back into his pocket and looking determined.

"No, Tom," said Maggie, imploringly, laying hold of the arm that
w