themselves, and soon burst forth in gladness. The change was
slow, but sure, and by the time the spring days came and it was possible
to get out into the open air, the color had come back to the pale face
and the light to the dimmed eyes. She was like a flower transplanted
from some dark corner into an open, sunny spot in a garden. But that
which, more than all else, tended to develop within her graces still
unfolded, was her constant contact with Steven. A subtle sympathy had
been established between them from their very first meeting and they
gradually became almost inseparable comrades. Their common love of
outdoor life took them on long walks into the woods, from which they
came burdened with the first blossoms of the springtime, or they would
return from the river, laden with fish, for Steven insisted upon making
Pepeeta his companion in every excursion; nor was it hard to persuade
her to join him, she was so naturally a creature of the open air and
sunlight.

Among the many happy days thus passed, one was especially memorable.
Steven had told her much of a famous fishing place in the big Miami,
several miles away, and had promised that if she would go with him on
the next Saturday he would show it to her and also reveal a secret which
no one knew but himself and in which she could not but take the greatest
interest. The day dawned bright and clear, and while the dew was still
on the grass they started.

One of Pepeeta's sources of enjoyment in these excursions was the
constant prattle of the boy about that uncle whose long absence had
served rather to increase than to diminish the idolatry of his heart.
This morning, so like the one on which Pepeeta had seen David by the
side of the brook when first they met, awakened all the fervor of her
love and she could think of nothing else.

"You must point out to me all the places where you and your uncle have
ever been together, little brother," she said to him, as they crossed
the field where she had first caught sight of David at the plow.

"Why does thee care to know so much about him?" he asked, naeively
looking up into her face.

"Do you not know?" she inquired.

"No, I have asked father and mother, but they will not tell me."

"If I tell you, will you be true to me?"

"Won't I, though? I love thee. I would fight for thee, if I were not a
Quaker's son! Perhaps I would fight for thee anyway."

"You will not need to fight for me, dearest. I could tell you a s