to her rippling melodies.

The black face of Orange shone and simmered with glee; she nodded
perpetually, and crooned and laughed to herself over her tasks by the
hour together,--a low chuckling laugh of exceeding content.

And did Waring ever stop to think? I know not. If he did, he forgot
the thoughts when Silver came and sat by him in the evening with the
light of the hearth-fire shining over her. He scarcely saw her at
other times, except on her balcony, or at her flower window as he came
and went in his boat below; but in the evenings she sat beside him in
her low chair, and laid sometimes her rose leaf palm in his rough
brown hand, or her pretty head against his arm. Old Fog sat by always;
but he said little, and his face was shaded by his hand.

The early autumn gales swept over the hikes, leaving wreck and
disaster behind, but the crew of the castle stayed safely at home and
listened to the tempest cosily, while the flowers bloomed on, and the
gulls brought all their relations and colonized the balcony and window
sills, fed daily by the fair hand of Silver. And Waring went not.

Then the frosts came, and turned the forests into splendor; they rowed
over and brought out branches, and Silver decked the long room with
scarlet and gold. And Waring went not.

The dreary November rains began, the leaves fell, and the dark water
surged heavily; but a store of wood was piled on the flat roof, and
the fire on the hearth blazed high. And still Waring went not.

At last the first ice appeared, thin flakes forming around the log