cried, in telling Gertrude all about it, "I think that it was
the happiest evening I ever spent, or it _would_ have been if Big Jerry
might only have been there, too."

A slight suggestion of a smile passed over the face of the older woman
as she pictured the mountaineer in a Beacon Street drawing room. Rose
saw, and interpreted it.

"Grandpap would not have been out of place there, or in a king's palace.
He _was_ a king, Miss Merriman."

"Yes, dear, he truly was," the other responded seriously.

There was a pause.

"Isn't Dr. Bentley nice," said Smiles, softly. "He must be splendid, for
Dr. Donald likes him a lot."

"He likes _you_ a lot, too! My, aren't we vain?" smiled Gertrude.

"Oh, I didn't think how that was going to sound!"

Rose's distress was real and the other hastened to say, "Yes, Dr.
Bentley is splendid. We used to call them 'David and Jonathan,' for
they were always together, and, before Dr. McDonald become engaged, we
said that neither would ever marry, since they couldn't marry each
other. Now I suppose that Dr. Bentley will be looking around for
consolation. Perhaps...."

"Don't be silly," laughed Smiles. But she became suddenly silent again.

CHAPTER XXV

THE FIRST MILESTONE

Three months sped by and were gone like a dream.

Day after day, until should come that longed-for, yet dreaded test, Rose
studied with a diligence that delighted the private tutor whom Donald,
through Miss Merriman, had secured for her--a young woman who found
herself astonished by her pupil's avidity in seeking knowledge.

The passing days were not, however, wholly dedicated to the books which
held for Smiles the key to the citadel she sought to possess.

Other doors and other hearts were open to her, and, because of her
simple charm, Donald's family welcomed her as a visitor whose every
advent in the city home seemed to bring a fresh breath from the hills
and open spaces. Little Muriel, who had loved her unseen, worshipped her
on sight, and Ethel, happy in Donald's betrothal to Marion Treville,
would have been glad to have had her with them far more often than she
would consent to come.

Long walks she took, too, regardless of weather, swinging freely along
on voyages of discovery; losing herself often in Boston's impossible
streets, only to find her way back home with the instinct for direction
of one bred amid forests, trackless, save for infrequent blind and
tortuous paths. And soon the historic