the intoxicated beholder cudgeled his brain for words or deeds which

should provoke and evoke more and more dimples.

The storekeeper hung the molasses pail over Rose's right arm and tucked

the packages under her left, and as he opened the mosquito netting door

to let her pass out she looked back at Stephen, perched on the kerosene

barrel. Just a little girl, a little glance, a little dimple, and

Stephen was never quite the same again. The years went on, and the boy

became man, yet no other image had ever troubled the deep, placid waters

of his heart. Now, after many denials, the hopes and longings of his

nature had been answered, and Rose had promised to marry him. He would

sacrifice his passion for logging and driving in the future, and become

a staid farmer and man of affairs, only giving himself a river holiday

now and then. How still and peaceful it was under the trees, and how

glad his mother would be to think that the old farm would wake from its

sleep, and a woman's light foot be heard in the sunny kitchen!

Heaven was full of silent stars, and there was a moonglade on the water

that stretched almost from him to Rose. His heart embarked on that

golden pathway and sailed on it to the farther shore. The river was free

of logs, and under the light of the moon it shone like a silver mirror.

The soft wind among the fir branches breathed Rose's name; the river,

rippling against the shore, sang, "Rose;" and as Stephen sat there

dreaming of the future, his dreams, too, could have been voiced in one

word, and that word "Rose."


The autumn days flew past like shuttles in a loom. The river reflected

the yellow foliage of the white birch and the scarlet of the maples. The

wayside was bright with goldenrod, with the red tassels of the sumac,

with the purple frost-flower and feathery clematis.

If Rose was not as happy as Stephen, she was quietly content, and felt

that she had more to be grateful for than most girls, for Stephen

surprised her with first one evidence and then another of thoughtful

generosity. In his heart of hearts he felt that Rose was not wholly his,

that she reserved, withheld something; and it was the subjugation of

this rebellious province that he sought. He and Rose had agreed to wait

a year for their marriage, in which time Rose's cousin would finish

school and be ready to live with the old people; meanwhile Stephen had

learned that his maiden aunt would be glad to come and keep house for

Rufus. The work at the River Farm was too hard for a girl, so he had

persuaded himself of late, and the house was so far from the village

that Rose was sure to be lonely. He owned a couple of acres between his

place and the Edgewood bridge, and here, one afternoon only a month

after their engagement, he took Rose to see the foundations of a little

house he was building for her. It was to be only a story-and-a-half

cottage of six small rooms, the two upper chambers to be finished off

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