chin,
and glorious as to forehead--who leaned back in the boat, played with
the overhanging branches, and listened and looked at the moon, and let
God's miracle work unhindered in her heart. And all up and down those
two miles of mill-pond were other boats and other boys and other
maidens, and as they chatted and sang and sat in the moonlight, there
grew in their hearts, as quietly as the growing of the wheat in the
fields, that strange marvel of life, that keeps the tide of humanity
ceaselessly flowing onward. And it is all so simply done before our
eyes, and in our ears, that we forget it is so baffling a mystery.

Now let us project our astral bodies into the living room of the
Barclay home, while Mr. and Mrs. John Barclay are away in Boston, and
only John Barclay's mother and his daughter are in Sycamore Ridge; and
let us watch a young man of twenty-one and a young woman of eighteen
dispose of a dish of fudge together. Fudge, it may be explained to the
unsophisticated, is a preparation of chocolate, sugar, and cream,
cooked, cooled, and cut into squares. As our fathers and mothers
pulled taffy, as our grandfathers and grandmothers conjured with maple
sugar, and as their parents worked the mysterious spell with some
witchery of cookery to this generation unknown, so is fudge in these
piping times the worker of a strange witchery. Observe: Through a
large room, perhaps forty feet one way and twenty-five feet the other
way, flits a young woman in the summer twilight. She goes about
humming, putting a vase in place here, straightening a picture there,
kicking down a flapping rug, or rearranging a chair; then she sits
down and turns on an electric light and pretends to read. But she does
not read; the light shows her something else in the room that needs
attention, and she turns to that. Then she sits down again, and again
goes humming about the room. Suddenly the young woman rises and
hurries out of the room, and a footstep is heard on the porch,
outside. A bell tinkles, and a maid appears, and--

"Yes," she says. "I'll see if Miss Jeanette is at home!"

And then a rustle of skirts is heard on the stairway and Miss Jeanette
enters with: "Why, Neal, you are an early bird this evening--were you
afraid the worm would escape? Well, it won't; it's right here on the
piano."

The young man's eyes,--good, clear, well-set, dark eyes that match
his brown hair; eyes that speak from the heart,--note how they dwell
upon every