There was nothing in the words, but the tone was not exactly polite. Fleda
granted him neither smile nor look.

"I am glad you like it up here," she went on, gravely doing the honours
of the place. "I came this way because we shouldn't have so many fences
to climb."

"You are the best little guide possible, and I have no doubt would always
lead one the right way," said Mr. Carleton.

Again the same gentle, kind, _appreciating_ look. Fleda unconsciously drew
a step nearer. There was a certain undefined confidence established
between them.

"There's a little brook down there in spring," said she pointing to a
small grass grown water-course in the meadow, hardly discernible from the
height,--"but there's no water in it now. It runs quite full for a while
after the snow breaks up; but it dries away by June or July."

"What are those trees so beautifully tinged with red and orange?--down
there by the fence in the meadow."

"I am not woodsman enough to inform you," replied Rossitur.

"Those are maples," said Fleda, "sugar maples. The one all orange is
a hickory."

"How do you know?" said Mr. Carleton, turning to her. "By your wit
as a fairy?"