half distant from post-office and stores; life
in the house with Rufus, who was rumored to be somewhat wild and
unsteady,--this prospect seemed a trifle dull and uneventful to the
trivial part of her, though to the better part it was enough. The better
part of her loved Stephen Waterman, dimly feeling the richness of his
nature, the tenderness of his affection, the strength of his character.
Rose was not destitute either of imagination or sentiment. She did not
relish this constant weighing of Stephen in the balance: he was too good
to be weighed and considered. She longed to be carried out of herself on
a wave of rapturous assent, but something seemed to hold her back,--some
seed of discontent with the man's environment and circumstances, some
germ of longing for a gayer, brighter, more varied life. No amount of
self-searching or argument could change the situation. She always loved
Stephen more or less: more when he was away from her, because she never
approved his collars nor the set of his shirt bosom; and as he naturally
wore these despised articles of apparel whenever he proposed to her, she
was always lukewarm about marrying him and settling down on the River
Farm. Still, today she discovered in herself, with positive gratitude,
a warmer feeling for him than she had experienced before. He wore a new
and becoming gray flannel shirt, with the soft turn-over collar that
belonged to it, and a blue tie, the color of his kind eyes. She knew
that he had shaved his beard at her request not long ago, and that when
she did not like the effect as much as she had hoped, he had meekly
grown a mustache for her sake; it did seem as if a man could hardly do
more to please an exacting ladylove.

And she had admired him unreservedly when he pulled off his boots and
jumped into the river to save Alcestis Crambry's life, without giving a
single thought to his own.

And was there ever, after all, such a noble, devoted, unselfish fellow,
or a better brother? And would she not despise herself for rejecting
him simply because he was countrified, and because she longed to see the
world of the fashion plates in the magazines?

"The logs are so like people!" she exclaimed as they sat down. "I could
name nearly every one of them for somebody in the village. Look at Mite
Shapley, that dancing little one, slipping over the falls and skimming
along the top of the water, keeping out of all the deep places, and
never once touching the rocks."