prettily away from bare feet, danced a gay fandango among the yellow
moonbeams. There were breathless flights to the open window, and kisses thrown
in the direction of the River Farm. There were impressive declamations at the
looking-glass, where a radiant creature pointed to her reflection and
whispered, "Worthless little pig, he loves you, after all!"

Then, when quiet joy had taken the place of mad delight, there was a swoop
down upon the floor, an impetuous hiding of brimming eyes in the white
counterpane, and a dozen impassioned promises to herself and to something
higher than herself, to be a better girl.

The mood lasted, and deepened, and still Rose did not move. Her heart was on
its knees before Stephen's faithful love, his chivalry, his strength. Her
troubled spirit, like a frail boat tossed about in the rapids, seemed entering
a quiet harbor, where there were protecting shores and a still, still evening
star. Her sails were all torn and drooping, but the harbor was in sight, and
the poor little weather-beaten craft could rest in peace.

A period of grave reflection now ensued, under the bedclothes, where one could
think better. Suddenly an inspiration seized her, an inspiration so original,
so delicious, and above all so humble and praiseworthy, that it brought her
head from her pillow, and she sat bolt upright, clapping her hands like a
child.

"The very thing!" she whispered to herself gleefully. "It will take courage,
but I'm sure of my ground after what he said before them all, and I'll do it.
Grandma in Biddeford buying church carpets, Stephen in Portland--was ever such
a chance?"

The same glowing Rose came downstairs, two steps at a time, next morning, bade