was very quiet--quiet as only the woods can be in the late
fall. Once, while Dick knelt there, two big, brown woodpeckers flew
heavily across the fields; once some little shrill-voiced bird called
suddenly from the bushes, with a distant flutter of wings, and he could
hear Roger's deep tones from the far, far distance, shouting directions
to the farm-hands. Still Stephanie did not move.

At last he made some involuntary sound, and she turned swiftly and saw
him. He saw the light of wonder and joy flash into her clear, pale
face, and sprang to his feet, calling her eagerly by name. Somehow, he
could never tell in what manner he cleared the barrier of the stump
fence, and was beside her in an instant.

"Dick! Dick! Dick!" And then for the first time in her life
Stephanie fainted.

CHAPTER XII.

To a Goodly Heritage.

Three years have passed, shifting from bud to blossom, from sun to
snow, from promise to fulfilment, bringing with them all their store of
light, and shadows only deep enough to make the brightness clearer.
Three times the snow has cleared from the good brown soil, three times
the tender green of wheat has gladdened the eye, three times the
fruitful fields have grown golden to the harvest, since Dick came home.
And how have these changing seasons affected Dick and Stephanie, and
all the people at the Collinson homestead?

On the third of these golden autumns there were great festivities at
the homestead, the occasion being no less than a barn-raising. It took
place on a clear, cool, golden October day, when the woods were
yellowed with softly-falling leaves, and late sunflowers and goldenrod
carried on the scheme of colour, with the brave purple asters to add a
last royal touch to the loveliness of nature looking forward to her
winter rest. The wide fields and the forest-bordered clearing had rung
all day with shouts and merriment, and the cheerful noise of willing
labour, for all the O'Brien family had lent their aid, and there were
nine of them. And now, when the early evening had darkened down in
clear grey twilight, they were all gathered in the great, low-ceilinged
living-room of the homestead, brightened only by the warm flicker of
flames from the logs upon the hearth.

Four juvenile O'Briens were seated before this hearth, roasting apples,
and also their own rosy faces. There was also Mr. Collinson, a little
more grey in his hair, and, if possible, a little more genial ruddines