how he had finally cut
cross-lots to the girl's home for fear of being seen, for surely he had
thought, everybody must know what he was up to!--how he had lingered
about the back door, and had at last, when the door opened, scudded back
home as fast as his legs could carry him! And now, the finest girl he
had ever seen was chumming with him, and he was not afraid, that is, not
very much afraid.

When Mildred had packed up to go home on the occasion of her former
visit she had invited Mrs. Trent to take her pick of her drawings for
her own.

"All but this," Mildred had said. "This which I call 'Sunset in the
Marshland' I am going to give to Dorian."

The mother had looked over the pile of sketches. There was a panel in
crayon which the artist said was the big cottonwood down by the Corners.
Mrs. Trent remarked that she never would have known it, but then, she
added apologetically, she never had an eye for art. There was a winter
scene where the houses were so sunk into the earth that only the roofs
were visible. (Mrs. Trent had often wondered why the big slanting roofs
were the only artistic thing about a house). Another picture showed a
high, camel-backed bridge, impossible to cross by anything more real
than the artist's fancy. Mrs. Trent had chosen the bridge because of its
pretty colors.

"Where shall we hang Dorian's picture?" Mildred had asked.

They had gone into his room. Mildred had looked about.

"The only good light is on that wall." She had pointed to the space
occupied by Dorian's "best girl."

And so Lorna Doone had come down and Mildred's study of the marshlands
glowed with its warmer colors in its place.

The plowboy arose from the grass. "Get up there," he said to his horses.
"We must be going, or there'll be very little plowing today."

Carlia Duke was the first person to greet Mildred as she alighted at the
Trent gate. Carlia knew of her coming and was waiting. Mildred put her
arm about her friend and kissed her, somewhat to the younger girl's
confused pleasure. The two girls went up the path to the house where
Mrs. Trent met them.

"Where's your baggage?" asked the mother of the arrival, seeing she
carried only a small bag and her violin case.

"This is all. I'm not going to paint this time--just going to rest,
mother said, so I do not need a lot of baggage."

"Well, come in Honey; and you too, Carlia. Dinner is about ready, an'
you'll stay."

By a little urging Carlia remained, and