The autumn days flew past like shuttles in a loom. The river reflected the
yellow foliage of the white birch and the scarlet of the maples. The wayside
was bright with goldenrod, with the red tassels of the sumac, with the purple
frost-flower and feathery clematis.

If Rose was not as happy as Stephen, she was quietly content, and felt that
she had more to be grateful for than most girls, for Stephen surprised her
with first one evidence and then another of thoughtful generosity. In his
heart of hearts he felt that Rose was not wholly his, that she reserved,
withheld something; and it was the subjugation of this rebellious province
that he sought. He and Rose had agreed to wait a year for their marriage, in
which time Rose's cousin would finish school and be ready to live with the old
people; meanwhile Stephen had learned that his maiden aunt would be glad to
come and keep house for Rufus. The work at the River Farm was too hard for a
girl, so he had persuaded himself of late, and the house was so far from the
village that Rose was sure to be lonely. He owned a couple of acres between
his place and the Edgewood bridge, and here, one afternoon only a month after
their engagement, he took Rose to see the foundations of a little house he was
building for her. It was to be only a story-and-a-half cottage of six small
rooms, the two upper chambers to be finished off later on. Stephen had placed
it well back from the road, leaving space in front for what was to be a most
wonderful arrangement of flower-beds, yet keeping a strip at the back, on the
river-brink, for a small vegetable garden. There had been a house there years
before-so many years that the blackened ruins were entirely overgrown; but a
few elms and an old apple-orchard remained to shade the new dwelling and give
welcome to the coming inmates.

Stephen had fifteen hundred dollars in bank, he could turn his hand to almost
anything, and his love was so deep that Rose's plumb-line had never sounded