had dwelt thus far in one of life's secluded valleys, and if she
lost much because her horizon was narrow she was shielded from
far more. Her fresh, full face had a certain pleasant, wholesome
aspect, like the fields about her home in June, as she bustled
about, preparing for the "city folks" whom her father so dreaded.

Roger's buggy was not yet paid for. It was the one great extravagance
that Mr. Atwood had permitted for many a year. As usual, his wife
had led him into it, he growling and protesting, but unable to resist
her peculiar persistency. Roger was approaching man's estate, and
something must be done to signalize so momentous an event. A light
buggy was the goal of ambition to the young men in the vicinity,
and Roger felt that he could never be a man without one. He also
recognized it as the best means of securing a wife to his mind,
for courting on a moonlit, shadowy road was far more satisfactory
than in the bosom of the young woman's family. Not that he was bent
on matrimony, but rather on several years of agreeable preparation
for it, proposing to make tentative acquaintances, both numerous
and miscellaneous.

In his impatience to secure this four-wheeled compendium of happiness
he had mortgaged his future, and had promised his father to plant
and cultivate larger areas. The shrewd farmer therefore had no
prospect of being out of pocket, for the young man was keeping his
word. The acres of the cornfield were nearly double those of the
previous year, and on them Roger spent the long hot day in vigorous
labor in preference to the easy task of going to the river for the
luggage. Dusty and weary, but in excellent spirits over the large
space that he and the hired man had "hilled up," he went whistling
home through the long shadows of the June evening. The farm wagon