rose straight as a lance. The tobacco cask, transfixed by the trunk of a
young oak and drawn by strong horses, had come to rest upon the turf by
the roadside. Gideon Rand unharnessed the team, and from the platform
built in the front of the cask took fodder for the horses, then tossed
upon the grass a bag of meal, a piece of bacon, and a frying-pan. The
boy collected the dry wood with which the earth was strewn, then struck
flint and steel, guarded the spark within the tinder, fanned the flame,
and with a sigh of satisfaction stood back from the leaping fire. His
father tossed him a bucket, and with it swinging from his hand, he made
through the wood towards a music of water. Goldenrod and farewell-summer
and the red plumes of the sumach lined his path, while far overhead the
hickories and maples reared a fretted, red-gold roof. Underfoot were
moss and coloured leaves, and to the right and left the squirrels
watched him with bright eyes. He found the stream where it rippled
between banks of fern and mint. As he knelt to fill the pail, the red
haw and the purple ironweed met above his head.

Below him was a little mirror-like pool, and it gave him back himself
with such distinctness that, startled, he dropped the pail, and bending
nearer, began to study the image in the water. Back in Albemarle, in his
dead mother's room, there hung a looking-glass, but it was cracked and
blurred, and he seldom gazed within it. This chance mirror of the woods
was more to the purpose. The moments slipped away while he studied the
stranger and familiar in the pool below him. The image was not formed or
coloured like young Narcissus, of whom he had never heard, but he
observed it with interest. He was fourteen, and old for his years. The
eyes reflected in the stream were brooding, the mouth had lost its
boyish curves, the sanguine cheek was thin, the jaw settling square. His
imagination, slow to quicken, had, when aroused, quite a wizard might.
He sank deeper amid the ironweed, forgot his errand, and began to dream.