LITMIR.BIZ

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you?" said Mary Erskine. Her heart began to beat, and she was afraid to say any thing more, for fear that her voice would tremble,

      "Yes," said Albert. "I saw you go to the village, and I wanted to speak to you when you came back."

      Mary Erskine walked along, but did not speak.

      "And I have been waiting and watching two months for you to go to the village," continued Albert.

      "I have not been much to the village, lately," said Mary.

      Here there was a pause of a few minutes, when Albert said again,

      "Have you any objection to my walking along with you here a little way, Mary?"

      "No," said Mary, "not at all."

      "Mary," said Albert, after another short pause, "I have got a hundred dollars and my axe,—and this right arm. I am thinking of buying a lot of land, about a mile beyond Kater's corner. If I will do it, and build a small house of one room there, will you come and be my wife? It will have to be a log house at first."

      Mary Erskine related subsequently to Mary Bell what took place at this interview, thus far, but she would never tell the rest.

      It was evident, however, that Mary Erskine was inclined to accept this proposal, from a conversation which took place between her and Mrs. Bell the next evening. It was after tea. The sun had gone down, and the evening was beautiful. Mrs. Bell was sitting in a low rocking-chair, on a little covered platform, near the door, which they called the stoop. There were two seats, one on each side of the stoop, and there was a vine climbing over it. Mrs. Bell was knitting. Mary Bell, who was then about six years old, was playing about the yard, watching the butterflies, and gathering flowers.

      "You may stay here and play a little while," said Mary Erskine to Mary Bell. "I am going to talk with your mother a little; but I shall be back again pretty soon."

      Mary Erskine accordingly went to the stoop where Mrs. Bell was sitting, and took a seat upon the bench at the side of Mrs. Bell, though rather behind than before her. There was a railing along behind the seat, at the edge of the stoop and a large white rose-bush, covered with roses, upon the other side.

      Mrs. Bell perceived from Mary Erskine's air and manner that she had something to say to her, so after remarking that it was a very pleasant evening, she went on knitting, waiting for Mary Erskine to begin.

      "Mrs. Bell," said Mary.

      "Well," said Mrs. Bell.

      The trouble was that Mary Erskine did not know exactly how to begin.

      She paused a moment longer and then making a great effort she said, "Albert wants me to go and live with him."

      "Does he?" said Mrs. Bell. "And where does he want you to go and live?"

      "He is thinking of buying a farm," said Mary Erskine.

      "Where?" said Mrs. Bell.

      "I believe the land is about a mile from Kater's corner."

      Mrs. Bell was silent for a few minutes. She was pondering the thought now for the first time fairly before her mind, that the little helpless orphan child that she had taken under her care so many years ago, had really grown to be a woman, and must soon, if not then, begin to form her own independent plans of life. She looked at little Mary Bell too, playing upon the grass, and wondered what she would do when Mary Erskine was gone.

      After a short pause spent in reflections like these, Mrs. Bell resumed the conversation by saying,

      "Well, Mary,—and what do you think of the plan?"

      "Why—I don't know," said Mary Erskine, timidly and doubtfully.

      "You are very young," said Mrs. Bell.

      "Yes," said Mary Erskine, "I always was very young. I was very young when my father died; and afterwards, when my mother died, I was very young to be left all alone, and to go out to work and earn my living. And now I am very young, I know. But then I am eighteen."

      "Are you eighteen?" asked Mrs. Bell.

      "Yes," said Mary Erskine, "I was eighteen the day before yesterday."

      "It is a lonesome place,—out beyond Kater's Corner," said Mrs. Bell, after another pause.

      "Yes," said Mary Erskine, "but I am not afraid of lonesomeness. I never cared about seeing a great many people."

      "And you will have to work very hard," continued Mrs. Bell.

      "I know that," replied Mary; "but then I am not afraid of work any more than I am of lonesomeness. I began to work when I was five years old, and I have worked ever since,—and I like it."

      "Then, besides," said Mrs. Bell, "I don't know what I shall do with my Mary when you have gone away. You have had the care of her ever since she was born."

      Mary Erskine did not reply to this. She turned her head away farther and farther from Mrs. Bell, looking over the railing of the stoop toward the white roses. In a minute or two she got up suddenly from her seat, and still keeping her face averted from Mrs. Bell, she went in by the stoop door into the house, and disappeared. In about ten minutes she came round the corner of the house, at the place where Mary Bell was playing, and with a radiant and happy face, and tones as joyous as ever, she told her little charge that they would have one game of hide and go seek, in the asparagus, and that then it would be time for her to go to bed.

      Two days after this, Albert closed the bargain for his land, and began his work upon it. The farm, or rather the lot, for the farm was yet to be made, consisted of a hundred and sixty acres of land, all in forest. A great deal of the land was mountainous and rocky, fit only for woodland and pasturage. There were, however, a great many fertile vales and dells, and at one place along the bank of a stream, there was a broad tract which Albert thought would make, when the trees were felled and it was brought into grass, a "beautiful piece of intervale."

      Albert commenced his operations by felling several acres of trees, on a part of his lot which was nearest the corner. A road, which had been laid out through the woods, led across his land near this place. The trees and bushes had been cut away so as to open a space wide enough for a sled road in winter. In summer there was nothing but a wild path, winding among rocks, stumps, trunks of fallen trees, and other forest obstructions. A person on foot could get along very well, and even a horse with a rider upon his back, but there was no chance for any thing on wheels. Albert said that it would not be possible to get even a wheelbarrow in.

      Albert, however, took great pleasure in going back and forth over this road, morning and evening, with his axe upon his shoulder, and a pack upon his back containing his dinner, while felling his trees. When they were all down, he left them for some weeks drying in the sun, and then set them on fire. He chose for the burning, the afternoon of a hot and sultry day, when a fresh breeze was blowing from the west, which he knew would fan the flames and increase the conflagration. It was important to do this, as the amount of subsequent labor which he would have to perform, would depend upon how completely the trees were consumed. His fire succeeded beyond his most sanguine expectations, and the next day he brought Mary Erskine in to see what a "splendid burn" he had had, and to choose a spot for the log house which he was going to build for her.

      Mary Erskine was extremely pleased with the appearance of Albert's clearing. The area which had been opened ascended a little from the road, and presented a gently undulating surface, which Mary Erskine thought would make very beautiful fields. It was now, however, one vast expanse of blackened and smoking ruins.

      Albert conducted Mary Erskine and Mary Bell—for Mary Bell had come in with them to see the fire,—to a little eminence from which they could survey the whole scene.

      "Look," said he, "is not that beautiful? Did you ever see a better burn?"

      "I don't know much about burns," said Mary Erskine, "but I can see that it will be a beautiful place for a farm. Why we can see the pond," she added, pointing toward the south.

      This was true. The falling of the trees had opened up a fine view of the pond, which was distant about a mile from the clearing. There was a broad stream which flowed swiftly over a gravelly bed along the lower part of

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