"Why, what have I done? I hav'nt done anything for you, for ages. Let
me see--can't I do something now? Oh yes, there are some flowers, and
I can make a nice wreath!"

And Verty ran and gathered an armful of primroses, marigolds, and
golden rods; some late roses, too, and so returned to Redbud.

"Now come to the arbor here--it's just like the Apple Orchard
one--come, and I'll make you a crown."

"Oh! I don't deserve it," laughed the young girl.

Verty smiled.

"Yes, you do," he said, "for you are my queen."

And he went and sat down upon the trellised bench, and began weaving a
wreath of the delicate yellow autumn primroses and other flowers.

Redbud sat down and watched him.

Placed thus, they presented a singular contrast, and, together, formed
a picture, not wanting in a wild interest--Verty, clothed in his
forest costume of fur and beads, his long, profusely-curling hair
hanging upon his shoulders, and his swarthy cheeks, round, and
reddened with health, presented rather the appearance of an Indian
than an Anglo-Saxon--a handsome wild animal rather than a pleasant
young man. Redbud's face and dress were in perfect contrast with all
this--she was fair, with that delicate rose-color, which resembles the
tender flush of sunset, in her cheeks; her hair was brushed back from