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."




VII

The Little House