the steps leading up from the gate of the
Gilpin place.

Rosalind, looking at the dignified mansion among the trees, felt the
atmosphere of mysterious interest that always surrounds a closed and
deserted house, particularly an old one upon which several generations
have left their impress. She thought of the young and lovely Patricia, and
the sailor lover who never came back.

"Do you know, I feel very sorry for Aunt Patricia, Maurice. To have some
one you love never come back--it must be very hard. I can understand a
little now since father and cousin Louis went away. Miss Betty said she
bore it bravely, too."

"It was a long time ago," said Maurice, feeling that it was a waste of
emotion to grieve over things that had happened so far back in the past.

"But there is the ring. It is not so very long ago since that was here.
Don't you wish we could go into the house and look for it? I believe it is
there somewhere;" Rosalind spoke with assurance.

"But they searched every nook and cranny," said Maurice.

"If it were in a story, there would be a secret drawer somewhere. I wonder
if Aunt Patricia isn't sorry it is lost." Rosalind sat in silence for a
few moments, looking down at the town. "I like Friendship," she said.
"There are a great many interesting things happening here, more than ever
happen at home."

The Gilpin house stood on an elevation of its own, from which the ground
sloped gently in all directions. Its late owner had cared little for
flowers and shrubs, but had taken pride in his trees, which still
preserved the dignity of their forest days. At the back of the house there
was a view of the little winding river, and halfway down the slope a once
flourishing vegetable garden had turned itself into a picturesque
wilderness of weeds. The charm of it all grew upon Rosalind as they walked
about.

"I should like to live here, Maurice. I like it better than our
garden--grandmamma's, I mean. Let's sit on the grass, where we can see the
river."

Not far from them was the rustic summer-house which Miss Betty had called
Patricia's arbor.

"Maurice," Rosalind exclaimed, with conviction in her tone, "this is the
Forest of Arden."

"You talk about it as if it were all true, instead of only a story," said
Maurice.

"But it is true--one kind of true. Cousin Louis explained it to me
once--ever so long ago, when I had a sore throat and couldn't go to the
Christmas tree, at the president's. I cried and was dre