ttled into a pleasant orchard; then another sudden decline, and
here a pretty stream came purling through, making a tiny cascade as it
tumbled over the rocks.

The little girl was deeply touched by beauty; and as they ran around she
stopped now and then to drink in the shady vistas and wild nooks that
seemed fairy-haunted. She had been reading a little mythology, and she
could believe in a great many things. There were places where she looked
to see Pan piping on his reed, and dryads and nymphs coming out of the
groves.

How they did run and play! The air was merry with shouts and laughter.
Some of them took off their shoes and stockings, and waded in the brook.
And one of the big boys proposed that on Saturday afternoon they should
go down to the Harlem River and get some crabs and clams.

There were enough children for a second table, and that was laid in the
upper kitchen. Auntie thought they must be starved; but instead they had
been stuffed with sweet apples. Still most of them did justice to the
bountiful dinner.

"This little girl looks tired out," said grandmother. "I think she had
better stay in and rest a while."

Hanny was very glad to do this. While grandmother took her nap, she went
upstairs where the grown-up people were talking and sewing. She wished
she had brought her crocheting; but Polly had laughed her out of it.
Then she took up a book, and was soon lost in that. It was an English
novel, as most of our novels were then, "Time the Avenger."

"That is a rather sad book for a little girl," said Cousin Jennie. "I'll
see if I can't find you something better. You look as if you were fond
of reading. You are Vermilye Underbill's little girl. And your brother
George has gone to California. I know him quite well, and the Yonkers
family. I suppose he hasn't found his nugget of gold yet?"

The little girl smiled, and said she did not think he had yet. His
letters had been full of the wonderful country; and it took so long to
get a letter.

"Here are some magazines with pictures and verses. Are you fond of
poetry? Maybe you are a poet. You have a delicate, ethereal look."

"Do poets have that?" asked Hanny. "I know a girl who writes verses and
stories; but she isn't at all ethereal. I'm quite sure I couldn't write
verses or anything," and she gave a soft laugh.

"Well, I think geniuses look quite like other people. I've seen a number
of them lately. We have a genius living up the road, and ever so ma