her."

Reuben did not appear much elated by this promise. It had been made too
many times without fulfilment.

The old lady having reached her destination, we take leave of her
for the present, promising to resume her acquaintance in subsequent
chapters.

CHAPTER XVI. FRANK MAKES A FRIEND

Henry Morton rose with the sun. This was not so early as may be
supposed, for already November had touched its middle point, and the
tardy sun did not make its appearance till nearly seven o'clock. As he
passed through the hall he noticed that breakfast was not quite ready.

"A little walk will sharpen my appetite," he thought. He put on his hat,
and, passing through the stable-yard at the rear, climbed over a fence
and ascended a hill which he had observed from his chamber window.
The sloping sides, which had not yet wholly lost their appearance of
verdure, were dotted with trees, mostly apple-trees.

"It must be delightful in summer," said the young man, as he looked
thoughtfully about him.

The hill was by no means high, and five minutes' walk brought him to the
summit. From this spot he had a fine view of the village which lay at
his feet embowered in trees. A narrow river wound like a silver thread
through the landscape. Groups of trees on either bank bent over as if
to see themselves reflected in the rapid stream. At one point a dam had
been built across from bank to bank, above which the river widened and
deepened, affording an excellent skating-ground for the boys in the cold
days of December and January. A whirring noise was heard. The grist-mill
had just commenced its work for the day. Down below the dam the shallow
water eddied and whirled, breaking in fleecy foam over protuberant rocks
which lay in the river-bed.

The old village church with its modest proportions occupied a knoll
between the hill and the river. It was girdled about with firs
intermingled with elms. Near-by was a small triangular common, thickly
planted with trees, each facing a separate street. Houses clustered here
and there. Comfortable buildings they were, but built evidently rather
for use than show. The architect had not yet come to the assistance of
the village carpenter.

Seen in the cheering light of the rising sun, Henry Morton could not
help feeling that a beautiful picture was spread out before him.

"After all," he said thoughtfully, "we needn't go abroad for beauty,
when we can find so much of it at our own doors. Yet, perhaps