ght wagon and a bony horse at the nearest livery stable,
and inquired the way to Kent Farm. Kent Farm was three miles distant, he
found, and the white, dusty road lay like a strip of silver between the
golden, green fields. The haymakers were at work, the summer air was
sweet with perfume, the fields of buckwheat waved, the birds sang in the
branches of the elms, the grasshoppers chirped until the drowsy air was
alive, and far beyond all, more beautiful than all, the silver sea lay
asleep under the sparkling sun. Pretty houses, all white and green, were
everywhere; and more than one Maud Mueller leaned on her rake, and looked
up under her broad-brimmed hat as this thoughtful Judge rode by. He rode
very slowly, so slowly that it was nearly an hour before he reached his
destination and drew up at the gate of Kent Farm.

Had he been wise to come? What was this young girl, this child of
seventeen, to him? What could she ever be? Youth turns to youth, as
flowers to the sun. What if he found her the plighted wife of some
stalwart young farmer, some elegant dry-goods clerk of the town? What?
His heart contracted with a sharp, sudden spasm, and told him what?

Kent Farm at last. Half a mile from any other house, on the summit of a
green, sloping eminence, an old red, weather-beaten farm-house its once
glaring color toned and mellowed down by the sober hand of Time. A
charming old place, its garden sloping down to the roadside, its lilac
trees in full bloom. A wide-spreading old-fashioned garden, with rose
bushes, and gooseberry bushes, currant bushes, sunflowers, and
hollyhocks, and big gnarled old apple trees, mixed up in picturesque
confusion.

Seated in a chair of twisted branches, under one of these crooked,
blossoming apple trees, the sunlight tangled in her shining hair, and
the mignonne face, sat Norine Kent Bourdon, reading a novel.

He opened the gate. Her book was interesting--she did not hear. He
walked up the gravelled path, and drew near. Then she looked up, then
half rose, in doubt for a moment, and then--to the day of his death,
until all things earthly, will Richard Gilbert remember the flush of
joy, the flash of recognition, the glad cry of welcome, with which she
flung aside her book and sprang towards him, both hands outstretched.

"Monsieur! monsieur!" the sweet voice cried. "Ah, monsieur! how glad I
am to see you."

She gave him her hands. The lovely, laughing face the eyes of fathomless
light, looked