rather hard with women who are uprooted, then," he said. "I suppose it is
something a roving man can hardly conceive of,--a woman's attachment to
places, and objects, and associations; they are like cats."

Miss Newell was silent.

Arnold moved restlessly; then began again, with his eyes still on the
trickle of water: "Miss Newell, do you remember a poem--I think it is
Bryant's--called 'The Hunter of the Prairies'? It's no disgrace not to
remember it, and it may not be Bryant's."

"I remember seeing it, but I never read it. I always skipped those Western
things."

Arnold gave a short laugh, and said, "Well, you are punished, you see, by
going West yourself to hear me repeat it to you. I think I can give you the
idea in the Hunter's own words:--

"'Here, with my rifle and my steed,
And her who left the world for me'"--

The sound of his own voice in the stillness of the little glen, and a look
of surprise in the young girl's quiet eyes, brought a sudden access of
color to Arnold's face. "Hm-m-m," he murmured to himself, "it's queer how
rhymes slip away. Well, the last line ends in _free_. You see, it is a
man's idea of happiness,--a young man's. Now, how do you suppose _she_
liked it,--the girl, you know, who left the world, and all that? Did you
ever happen to see a poem or a story, written by a woman, celebrating the
joys of a solitary existence with the man of her heart?"