All winter long Stephen labored on the inside of the cottage,
mostly by himself. He learned all trades in succession, Love
being his only master. He had many odd days to spare from his
farm work, and if he had not found days he would have taken
nights. Scarcely a nail was driven without Rose's advice; and
when the plastering was hard and dry, the wall-papers were the
result of weeks of consultation.

Among the quiet joys of life there is probably no other so deep,
so sweet, so full of trembling hope and delight, as the building
and making of a home,--a home where two lives are to be merged
in one and flow on together, a home full of mysterious and
delicious possibilities, hidden in a future which is always
rose-colored.

Rose's sweet little nature broadened under Stephen's influence;
but she had her moments of discontent and unrest, always followed
quickly by remorse.

At the Thanksgiving sociable some one had observed her turquoise
engagement ring,--some one who said that such a hand was worthy
of a diamond, that turquoises were a pretty color, but that there
was only one stone for an engagement ring, and that was a
diamond. At the Christmas dance the same some one had said her
waltzing would make her "all the rage" in Boston. She wondered
if it were true, and wondered whether, if she had not promised to
marry Stephen, some splendid being from a city would have
descended from his heights, bearing diamonds in his hand. Not
that she would have accepted them; she only wondered. These
disloyal thoughts came seldom, and she put them resolutely away,