ry, which she was used to and tolerated, but which cheapened the
admirer in her estimation, and now and then betrayed her into an
expression which made him aware of the fact, and was a discouragement to
aggressive amiability. The real difficulty was that not one of her
adorers had ever greatly interested her. It could not be that nature had
made her insensible. It must have been because the man who was made for
her had never yet shown himself. She was not easy to please, that was
certain; and she was one of those young women who will not accept as a
lover one who but half pleases them. She could not pick up the first
stick that fell in her way and take it to shape her ideal out of. Many
of the good people of the village doubted whether Euthymia would ever be
married.

"There 's nothing good enough for her in this village," said the old
landlord of what had been the Anchor Tavern.

"She must wait till a prince comes along," the old landlady said in
reply. "She'd make as pretty a queen as any of them that's born to it.
Wouldn't she be splendid with a gold crown on her head, and di'monds a
glitterin' all over her! D' you remember how handsome she looked in the
tableau, when the fair was held for the Dorcas Society? She had on an old
dress of her grandma's,--they don't make anything half so handsome
nowadays,--and she was just as pretty as a pictur'. But what's the use of
good looks if they scare away folks? The young fellows think that such a
handsome girl as that would cost ten times as much to keep as a plain
one. She must be dressed up like an empress,--so they seem to think. It
ain't so with Euthymy: she'd look like a great lady dressed anyhow, and
she has n't got any more notions than the homeliest girl that ever stood
before a glass to look at herself."

In the humbler walks of Arrowhead Village society, similar opinions were
entertained of Miss Euthymia. The fresh-water fisherman represented
pretty well the average estimate of the class to which he belonged. "I
tell ye," said he to another gentleman of leisure, whose chief occupation
was to watch the coming and going of the visitors to Arrowhead
Village,--"I tell ye that girl ain't a gon to put up with any o' them
slab-sided fellahs that you see hangin' raound to look at her every
Sunday when she comes aout o' meetin'. It's one o' them big gents from
Boston or New York that'll step up an' kerry her off."

In the mean time nothing could be further from the thought