and see
the house amid the hollyhocks and trees, a thin line of blue smoke
curling lazily from the kitchen chimney and floating away over the deep,
black forest to the north and east. I see the maples languidly turning
the white side of their leaves to catch the south wind's balmy breath,
and I see by my side a fate-charged, tiny tot, dabbling in the water,
mocking the songs of the birds, and ever turning her face, with its
great brown wistful eyes, to catch the breath of destiny and to hear the
sad dread hum of the future. But my old chum Billy Little was the
child's especial friend.

In those good times there was another child, a boy, Diccon Bright, who
often came down from his cabin home a mile up river to play with Rita on
the blue-grass lawn in summer, or to sit with her on the hearth log in
winter. In cold weather the hearth log was kept on one side of the
hearth, well within the fireplace itself, ready for use when needed. It
gloried in three names, all of which were redolent of home. It was
called the "hearth log" because it was kept upon the hearth; the
"waiting log" because it was waiting to take the place of the log that
was burning, and the "ciphering log" because the children sat upon it in
the evening firelight to do their "ciphering"--a general term used to
designate any sort of preparation for the morrow's lesson. In those
times arithmetic was the chief study, and from it the acquisition of all
branches of knowledge took the name of ciphering.

Diccon--where on earth his parents got the name, I cannot tell--was four
or five years older than Rita. He was a manly boy, and when my little
friend could hardly lisp his name she would run to him with the unerring
instinct of childhood and nestle in his arms or cling to his helpful
finger. The little fellow was so sturdy, strong, and brave, and his dark
gray eyes were so steadfast and true, that she feared no evil from him,
though ordinarily she was a timid child. She would sit by him on the
ciphering log during the long winter evenings, and the boy, the girl,
and the fire were the best of friends, and had glorious times together
on the heart of the cheery hearth. The north wind might blow, the snow
might snow, and the cold might freeze, Rita, Dic, and the fire cared not
a straw.

"I want no better mirror, my little sweetheart," he would say, "than
your brown eyes; no prettier color than your rosy cheeks and glossy
black hair, and no truer friend than your lo