have been extended as far as the thorns, for she had wounded her
scores,--hearts, be it understood, not hands. The wounding was,
on the whole, very innocently done; and if fault could be imputed
anywhere, it might rightly have been laid at the door of the kind
powers who had made her what she was, since the smile that
blesses a single heart is always destined to break many more.

She had not a single silk gown, but she had what is far better, a
figure to show off a cotton one. Not a brooch nor a pair of
earrings was numbered among her possessions, but any ordinary
gems would have looked rather dull and trivial when compelled to
undergo comparison with her bright eyes. As to her hair, the
local milliner declared it impossible for Rose Wiley to get an
unbecoming hat; that on one occasion, being in a frolicsome mood,
Rose had tried on all the headgear in the village emporium,--
children's gingham "Shakers," mourning bonnets for aged dames,
men's haying hats and visored caps,--and she proved superior to
every test, looking as pretty as a pink in the best ones and
simply ravishing in the worst. In fact, she had been so
fashioned and finished by Nature that, had she been set on a
revolving pedestal in a show-window, the bystanders would have
exclaimed, as each new charm came into view: "Look at her
waist!" "See her shoulders!" "And her neck and chin!" "And
her hair!" While the children, gazing with raptured admiration,
would have shrieked, in unison, "I choose her for mine."

All this is as much as to say that Rose of the river was a
beauty, yet it quite fails to explain, nevertheless, the secret
of her power. When she looked her worst the spell was as potent
as when she looked her best. Hidden away somewhere was a vital