into the house, to wash up the breakfast service and set the room in order. It was a queer day-that first one that she spent alone in her cabin. After arranging her corner cupboard and sweeping her room, and making a few little alterations and improvements in the disposition of her lighter furniture, she unpacked her sewing materials and sat down in the door to needlework. The primeval forest all around her, even up to the house, the blue sky above, and the log cabin, in the door of which she sat, was all that met the eye; the trilling songs of the wood birds, and the ripple-ripple of the trickling spring in the deep dell near, was all that met the ear. And yet she was not lonesome-she loved this solitude-the manifest presence of God filled it, and heart and mind received the holy, the elevating, the joyous influence. The day advanced-the sparkling freshness of the morning mellowed into noon. And then she got up and took a pitcher and went down to the spring, that seemed to have been calling her in its merry voice all the morning. A narrow, steep path down into the dingle led to the spring, and beyond it arose a high hill, heavily wooded, like all the land about there. She filled her pitcher, and returned to the house to take her lonely noontide luncheon. And then, as the meridian sun was pouring its rays in at the door, which you know faced the south, she removed her needlework to the west window, and resumed her sewing. Day waned; nor was she conscious of its waning until the burning sun began to glance in at her through the window where she sat, and oblige her to take her work to the opposite one-smiling at the conceit of being chased from place to place by

Apollo. She sat at the cool east window, until the striking of the clock warned her that it was time to prepare the afternoon meal, which was to comprise "dinner and supper together." She arose, and put away her work. But what was there to be got for dinner, after all? Tea without milk, bread without butter, and salted beef without vegetables. A poor meal certainly to set before an epicurean, such as Mr. Sutherland had been, for of herself she never thought.

Suddenly she recollected having seen some wild plum trees growing on the hill beyond the spring, and she knew the fruit should now be ripe, and she thought she would go and get some, to make a pie. No sooner thought than attempted. She seized her bonnet, caught up a little basket, and set out. She hastened down the dingle path, crossed the run, and climbed the hill. She reached its summit, and stopped to breathe, and rest for a moment. The sudden glory of the extended landscape held her spell-bound. On one side of the forest-a boundless ocean of waving greenery-spreading on and on, thousands of miles, for aught she knew, after it was lost under the horizon. On the other side, the vast prairie, with its dotted groves, like oases in desert, and in the distance the river, and the village, and the opposite shore of Missouri Territory. For a few minutes she stood in enchanted admiration; and then, remembering that she had no time to lose, addressed herself to the errand upon which she came, promising herself, after tea, when they should be at leisure, to return with Mark, and view the landscape over by moonlight. The wild plum trees furnished a rich harvest. She had only

to shake the slight and graceful shaft, and a shower of ripe fruit fell around her. She quickly filled her basket; and then, with her girlish love of change, she returned to the house by another way. By this little route through the thicket, she observed, late as it was in the season, a profusion of wild raspberries, of unusual size and richness. She stopped, in pleased surprise, to gather them, and heaped them up on top of the plums, as many as the basket would hold.

Delighted with these woodland treasures-such a delicious addition to her frugal board-she returned to the cabin, and began to prepare their evening meal. Rosalie had not superintended her uncle's Virginia farm-house for two years, to no purpose. She was a skilful little cook. It was not much to prepare a meal twice a day, for two persons; besides, her "good will was to it." And I doubt if, in all the elegance and luxury of her Southern home, she was ever gayer, gladder, happier, than when preparing, with her own hands, this first little supper in her log cabin. The meal was soon ready. The damask table linen and the delicate china that adorned the table, and the fair girl that hovered around it, I was about to say, were somewhat out of keeping with the house. But that would not have been true; for there was nothing mean, poor, or squalid, in the surroundings of the log cabin. It had a wild, woodland air-there was as yet nothing to offend the most æsthetic taste. The arrangement of the table was complete-the last things set upon it being the delicate pastry and the cut-glass bowl of raspberries, powdered with sugar. But, there was no cream or butter; and this was Rosalie's sole regret, as she gave a pleased glance at the whole effect,

and then went to each window, and put aside the muslin curtains to let in the evening breeze, and the green woodland prospect. As she turned from the window, she was startled by a thump upon the floor, and the exclamation of

"There! she sent you these! And I wonder why you couldn't o' comed arter them yourself!"

And with astonishment Rosalie saw standing in the room a large, fair-complexioned, middle-aged man, clothed in coarse blue linen jacket and trousers, with a waiter's white apron tied before him. He had just thumped on the floor a large basket filled with vegetables. He still held in his hand a tin pail, with a tin pan covered upon the top of it.

"Who are you?" inquired she.

"Billy. Here's the butter. Where am I to pour the milk?" said the man, lifting the little pan that contained a pound print, and displaying half a gallon of milk in the pail.

"Who sent these?" asked Rose, in surprise.

"She! Can't you empty the milk? I've got to carry the bucket back."

"I am afraid there is some mistake," said Rose, hesitating. "Who did you say sent you?"

“Her, I tell you. I can't stand here gablin' all day."

"But, my good friend, there is some error-these things were not sent to me," persisted Rosalie, looking longingly at the hard, sweet-smelling butter, with the dew rising on it.

With no more ado, "Billy" marched up to the corner cupboard, seized a knife, passed it under the print of butter, and deftly turned the print out of the

pan into a plate; next, he took up the pail and poureċ the milk into a pitcher; finally, he went back and seized his basket, and seeing nothing to receive the vegetables, just turned it upside down and shook them out upon the floor-and potatoes, cucumbers, onions, tomatoes, &c., rolled in every direction. And "Billy" caught up his empty pan and pail and pitched them into the basket, and hitched the latter, with a jerk, upon his arm, and marched out of the door, exclaiming

"Now, for the futur', mind, you must come arter 'em every day, yourself—if they're worth havin' they're worth comin' for, an' I've got 'nough to do for her, 'out trudgin' over here every day for you. An' I told her I wan't a-goin' to do it, nuther," &c., &c., &c.

For long after Billy was out of sight in the woods, Rosalie heard the retreating sound of his grumbling. Full of wonder, she set about to collect the fugitive potatoes, tomatoes, &c. She put them under the lower shelf of her cupboard, and drew the short white curtain before them; then she set the pitcher of rich milk and the plate of fresh butter upon the table, much pleased with the unexpected luxury, but more pleased to anticipate the surprise and pleasure of Mark. And all being ready, she took her sewing, and sat in the door to watch for his coming. She heard his footstep before she saw his form; and she closed the door and ran up the woodland path to meet him. And soon their merry voices and silvery laughter echoed through the forest, as they approached the cabin. Rosalie had said nothing of her new luxuries; and when they entered the cabin, and he threw a glance around, and