," she explained. "There, do you hear that bell?
That's for dinner," and taking a tiny watch from an elf-like pocket, she
added, "Only half-past eleven. But, to be sure, we ate breakfast with
the chickens. It's horrible."

"Don't you live here?"

"Live here?" she echoed. "No, I'm only visiting. Good-bye, I must go. I
am much obliged, though," and as if the recollection were overpowering,
she again burst out into her ringing laugh.

"It was too funny you didn't see me; and I so scared I was afraid to
breathe. Good-bye, I hope you will have a good time with your picture."

"But you are not going to dismiss me, are you? Mayn't I take you home?"

"Yes, if you like; only you musn't stay long. I've got to do Rollin and
Plutarch while I'm out here, and can't be bothered."

With difficulty repressing an explosion, the young man walked beside
the woodland sprite, with his goods and chattels thrown across his
shoulders, and found himself falling--yes, tumbling--headlong in love.
Such an airy, fairy, exquisite piece of humanity it had never been his
fortune to behold.

"You are too young to worry your brain with dry old fossils like Rollin
and Plutarch," he said, with what gravity he could.

"I am a person of twenty," she affirmed with demure satisfaction, as she
tripped along in a manner quite enchanting.

At the door of the farm-house a fair, motherly face smiled a welcome
from the border of a spotless cap, then sobered a little at the sight
of a stranger.

"This is Aunt Hepsy," simply said Daisy, "and you are--?" hesitating.

A flush not born of the sunshine mounted to his brow as with swift
thought he saw the shoals ahead, and did not dare reveal his identity.

"John Smith," he said, with his natural ease.

"Oh!" half exclaimed Daisy, upon hearing such a very common name from
such very uncommon lips; but checking it, and softly humming a tune, she
retired to an inner room to prepare for dinner.

This episode was the beginning of elysium for John Smith. Every day saw
him at the farm-house. Every day revealed some new charm in the Daisy
he had found. She was as industrious and sensible as she was petite and
pretty. Rollin and Plutarch were discarded for modern authors, or for
simple chit-chat about mamma, papa, and little ones at home.

But when the day came for John Smith to tell his love, he met with a
shock that quite paralyzed his senses.

Looking up with her big blue eyes, she said:

"You mustn't talk li