Miss Prillwitz pointed out more obscure plants, and gave us interesting bits of information in regard to them. Some had strangely human characteristics. The cassia, a shrinking sensitive-plant with yellow blossoms, was one of these, while the poison-ivy in its unctuous growth had an evil and malignant appearance which seemed to hint at its inimical nature. She told us how to tell the poisonous sumac from the harmless variety, the poisonous kind being the only one that has pendant fruit. She gave us also a little chat about parasitic plants, suggested by a gerardia, a little thief which draws its nutriment from the roots of huckleberry.

"I did not know that plants had so little conscience," said Winnie. "It reminds me of a guest a Southern gentleman had, who remained twelve years, and after the death of the host married his widow."

"Plants seem also to be cruel," said Miss Prillwitz. "Zere is ze apocynum, a carnivorous plant which eat ze insect. You should read of him by Darwin. He set a trap for ze fly wiz some honey, and when Mr. Fly tickle ze plant, quick he is caught, and Mr. Apocynum he eat him, and digest him at his leisures."

"Miss Prillwitz, you should write a book for young people, and call it 'Near Nature's Heart,'" I suggested.

"I would so like," replied Miss Prillwitz, "but if I waste my time to write, how should I earn my lifes? I have know many author, and very few do make their wealths by—by their authority."

Miss Prillwitz brought out the last word triumphantly, quite sure that she had achieved a success in our difficult language. I turned aside to Mr. Stillman, that she might not see my smile. "How interesting she makes our climb," I said, "and all these wayside weeds! 'She illustrates the landscape.'"

"In my humble opinion it is Miss Sartoris who 'illustrates the landscape,'" he replied. "See what a picture she makes reaching after those sweet-briar blossoms! I wish I had not left my detective at the station."

Miss Sartoris was indeed very pretty. It seemed to me that she grew younger and more bewitching with every day of our trip. Each changing pose as she leisurely picked the wild roses was full of grace, but I could hardly understand why Mr. Stillman should greatly regret not securing this particular view, when she had figured in at least half of the photographs which he had taken.

We reached the top of the mountain just at sunset. The west glowed with a yellow-green color. The strange clouds, which had been as white as curds in the afternoon, were now dark blue, lighted by flashes of heat lightning. They moved forward like the pillar which led the Israelites, great billowy masses piled one on the other and toppling at the summit, while they melted at the base into a mist of rain. Behind them was the background of the sunset, like a plate of hammered gold dashed with that sinister green. There were threatening rumblings in the east also, and Amherst and its college buildings were blotted out by the rain clouds, which resembled the petals of a fringed gentian, and seemed to be traveling rapidly in our direction.

Father took a rapid view of the horizon. "There will be no fireworks display for us to-night," he said. "There are two showers which will meet in an hour's time, and Toby will be just about in the centre of the fracas. We had better hurry down the mountain if we want to escape a wetting."

Miss Sartoris gave a longing look at the beautiful panorama of nestling villages, forest and winding river (a view unsurpassed in Massachusetts), and now glorified by the magnificent cloud effects. "Can we not rest for half an hour?" she asked.

"I think not," father replied, and we reluctantly retraced our steps. When half-way down the mountain the wind, which preceded the march of the cloud battalion, caught up with us. The chestnuts crouched low and moaned, the poplars shivered and shook their white palms, and the hemlocks writhed and tossed their gaunt arms as though in agony. Then there was a hush, when they seemed to stand still from very fear, and a minute later the storm burst upon us. We were but a short distance from the station when this occurred, and the foliage which roofed the road was so dense that we were not very wet when we reached our shelter. There was an invigorating scent of ozone in the air, and a certain exhilaration in being out in a storm, and in hearing the crash of falling limbs far back in the woods. We noticed the gentleness of the rain, which, though apparently fierce, did not break a single fragile wild-flower. Each leaf, sponged free from dust, brightened as though freshly varnished, and each blade of grass threaded its necklace of crystal beads. The cascade, swollen and turbid, roared angrily at our side, and a shallower rivulet made the path slippery as we hurried on; but a few moments of laughing scramble brought us panting into the dry station, safely housed for the night from the storm.

Father and Mr. Stillman arranged shelter for the horses by spreading the tent between the two carts, and we ate our supper at what had formerly been a refreshment counter. Then the ticket-office was assigned to the gentlemen as their dormitory, and hammocks were hung for the rest of us in the ladies' waiting-room. We told ghost stories for a time by the light of a spirit-lamp and a few candles, but retired early, as we were thoroughly tired from our long walk, and were soon asleep, lulled by the monotone of the falling rain. We were not destined, however, to enjoy a night of undisturbed repose, for the principal adventure of our journey occurred that night.

I do not know how long we had slept when we were all suddenly awakened by a startling scream.

"What is it? Oh, what is it?" gasped Winnie.

"Is it a catamount?" asked Miss Sartoris.

I thought of the railroad track, which ran close beside us, and suggested that it might be the shriek of a passing engine, when suddenly it came again on the side of the station opposite to the track. Father sprang up, exclaiming, "Something is the matter with the horses!"

The rain was still pouring, and a dim light from the swinging lantern illumined the room. As father spoke, one of the windows, which had been left open for ventilation, was suddenly filled by an uncouth form, which, with much scrambling and snorting, was proceeding to force an entrance.

"It is a bear!" shrieked Winnie; and so it was. Mr. Stillman rushed forward with his rifle. There was a loud report, and a heavy fall on the outside.

"Horses can scent bears at a distance," said father, as he took down the lantern; "but who would have thought there were any such creatures in these woods?"

"Perhaps it has broken away from the circus," suggested Mr. Stillman, reloading his rifle; for there was an ominous growling outside. Human voices were presently heard whose intonations were almost as harsh as those of the brute. Father unbarred the door, and we saw two men bending over the wounded bear, which he now saw was muzzled, and the property of the men, who had evidently heard of the old station, and had thought to take refuge in it from the storm.

"Here's a pretty state of things!" father exclaimed, with a whistle. "You have shot a performing bear, Stillman, and these showmen will probably make us pay dearly for the mistake."

We had all been terribly frightened; but we recovered instantly on this announcement, and hurriedly dressing, we peered out at the men as they stood about the wounded animal and discussed the situation. One of the showmen was a foreigner, who swore and grumbled in some strange language, which Miss Prillwitz afterward told us was Russian. The other was unmistakably a Jew, and he took a Jewish advantage of the accident.

"You haf ruined our pizness—dot bear he wort one, two hundert dollar!"

"Nonsense!" replied father, as confidently as if he were accustomed to trade in that species of live-stock; "he's dear at fifty. Besides, he isn't dead, nor anything like it. Hold him with this halter, you two, and I'll examine him. There! I told you so; it's only a flesh wound in the right foreleg. There are no bones broken. He will be ready for travel in a week. All you've got to do is to stay here for a few days—and where could you be better off? We leave in the morning, and no one will dispute your possession of this house. I will leave you enough provisions to keep you until you are ready for the road again."

The men talked it over in Russian, and seemed far from satisfied, though Mr. Stillman offered to give them twenty dollars as an equivalent for what they would have gained during the next week, and father added his remaining stock of small tinware, which, he explained, they could easily sell from door to door at the farm-houses and villages in the vicinity. He was tired of his occupation as a tin-peddler, and glad to get rid of the obnoxious soldering furnace, as well as the patty-pans and muffin-rings. A settlement was finally effected when, in addition to this, Mr. Stillman agreed to their demand for fifty dollars cash indemnity.

There was no more sleep for us that night, and it was with rueful countenances that we discussed the adventure among ourselves.

"To think," lamented Winnie, "that, just as we were congratulating ourselves on gaining so much money for the Home, we should be obliged to pay it all out, and more besides, to these wretched men, and all for nothing too!"

"Yes," replied Mr. Stillman, "that is the provoking part. If I had only killed the creature we might have bear-steak for breakfast (though it would have been pretty expensive meat), and I could have had his hide mounted as a rug, and have exhibited it to my friends with truthful braggadocio as one of my hunting trophies."

I sympathized with Winnie in regard to the depleted condition of our treasury; but Miss Prillwitz remarked, enigmatically, that the adventure might not prove to be such a losing one as we imagined. We begged her to explain; but she bade us wait until we were at least ten miles from our encampment.

We relinquished the station to the showmen after a very early breakfast, and drove away with lightened carts and subdued spirits.

The rain had ceased, but was likely to begin again at any moment, for the sky was thickly overcast, and father suggested that, as this was a famous trout region, we might do well to spend the morning in fishing. This plan pleased all but Miss Prillwitz, who whispered to father that she had particular reasons for reaching a telegraph station as soon as possible, and we accordingly directed our course at a rattling pace toward the shire town of Greenfield. On the way Miss Prillwitz confided to us her suspicions; and in order that the reader may understand them, I must anticipate the events which are to be related in the next chapter, and explain that, after the explosion at Rickett's Court, Solomon Meyer and one of the anarchists had disappeared from New York, and Mr. Armstrong had offered a reward for their apprehension.

The anarchist was known to be a Russian, and though Miss Prillwitz had never seen Solomon Meyer, she felt sure, from Lovey Trimble's description of him, that he had decided to avoid the ordinary routes of travel, and to journey toward Canada on foot, disguised as an itinerant showman. She had more proofs of his identity than these suspicions. The men had conversed very freely with each other in Russian, never dreaming that there was any one present who could understand the language. The Russian had complained bitterly that this accident would delay their journey to Canada, and the Jew had replied that it might be as well to lie hidden until the search was over.

Arrived at Greenfield, Miss Prillwitz telegraphed to Mr. Armstrong, and in two hours received the following reply: "Have the local authorities arrest the parties and detain them until I can reach Greenfield."

Accordingly Mr. Stillman and father, with a sheriff and a constable, drove back toward Mount Toby in a sort of picnic wagon. Father advised us to await him at Deerfield, one of the most interesting villages in the Connecticut Valley—both from its intrinsic beauty and its historic associations. We engaged lodgings at the small hotel, where we found but one other traveler, a dejected book-agent. It was nearly dinner-time, and the landlord looked rather alarmed by the unexpected arrival of so many hungry-looking guests, but he soon set before us a capital dinner of broiled chicken, and after a little rest we took a stroll through the beautiful old town. We were informed that the Memorial Hall, a museum of antique furniture, books, costumes, and other curiosities, was well worth visiting; and so, indeed, we found it. One object which greatly interested me was an old spinnet, with a quaint collection of music, both sacred and secular. Here was a great bass-viol which formerly groaned out an accompaniment to the male voices of the choir as they took their part in such strange, metrical arrangements as

The Library, too, a collection of "the (literary) remains" of many celebrated doctors of divinity, was a fascinating room, and one in which we would have enjoyed prowling for a long time. Hawthorne has given such an admirable description, in his "Old Manse," of just such a library, that I cannot forbear quoting it here.

"The old books would (for the most part) have been worth nothing at an auction. They possessed an interest quite apart from their literary value; many of them had been transmitted down through a series of consecrated hands from the days of the mighty Puritan divines. A few of the books were Latin folios written by Catholic authors; others demolished papistry as with a sledgehammer, in plain English. A dissertation on the book of Job, which only Job himself could have had the patience to read, filled at least a score of small, thick-set quartos, at the rate of two or three volumes to a chapter. Then there was a vast folio 'Body of Divinity.' Volumes of this form dated back two hundred years and more, and were generally bound in black leather, exhibiting precisely such an appearance as we should attribute to books of enchantment. Others equally antique were of a size proper to be carried in the large waistcoat pockets of old times: diminutive, but as black as their bulkier brethren. These little old volumes impressed me as if they had been intended for very large ones, but had been, unfortunately, blighted at an early stage of their growth. Then there were old newspapers, and still older almanacs, which reproduced the epochs when they had issued from the press with a distinctness that was altogether unaccountable. It was as if I had found bits of magic looking-glass among the books, with the images of a vanished century in them."

We lingered long in the Library, and in the Indian Room, where stands an old door gashed by the tomahawks of the Indians who, with a company of French, in 1704, surprised Deerfield, massacred a great part of the inhabitants, and carried a hundred and twelve as prisoners to Canada. Yellow and crumbling letters, uncertainly spelled and quaintly phrased, hung around the room, telling how perilous such a driving-tour as we had just taken would have been in those pioneer days. One, dated 1756 and written to Captain John Burt in the Crown Point Army, read as follows:

"Dear Husband.

"It is a Crasie time in this place. There is but little Traviling by the Massachusetts Fort which makes it more difficult to send letters. Capt. Chapin and Chidester and his Son were killed and scalpt by the Enemy near the new foort at Hoosack."

Sarah Williams, of Roxbury, in 1714 announces to her friends at Deerfield the expected return of many of their friends who had been carried off in different raids—"We have had news that Unkel is Coming with one hundred and fifty Captives."

The number dwindled, and many who were carried away on that dreary march through the winter snow never returned, but among the relics preserved in the archives of Memorial Hall is a pathetic little red shoe which walked all the way from Hatfield to Canada and back, on the foot of little Sally Colman. It is hardly more than a tiny sole, with a rag of the scarlet upper clinging to it, but it tells the story of the cruel march, and the heroic efforts of the noble men who effected the rescue of their friends, better than many a page of print.

We were so much interested in Memorial Hall that it was long past supper-time before we thought of leaving. The book-agent advised us to visit the old burying-ground, and, after supper, offered to show us the way. We found it grass-grown and neglected; in some portions, a thicket of climbing vines and tangling briers. Indeed, the entire God's acre was so given over to nature that the birds built undismayed, while the squirrel frisked impudently on the headstones, and the woodchuck burrowed beside the tombs. It had not been used for many years; a newer cemetery raised its white monuments on the hillside, while here lichens nearly filled the carving, and the stones leaned at tipsy angles, proving that grief for any buried here had been long assuaged, that the very mourners had passed away, and it was doubtful whether a single aged man still lingered in the town of whom it could be said that

As Miss Sartoris remarked, the place did not suggest sadness, but gentle retrospection, while curiosity provoked the fancy to fill out the histories so provokingly suggested in the inscriptions. Here was buried Mrs. Williams, whom her epitaph declares to be "the virtuous and desirable consort of Mr. John Williams," and Mr. Mehuman Hinsdale, who was "twice captivated by the barbarous savages."

The book-agent read us another epitaph, copied in Vernon, Vt., which suggested a three-volume novel in the history which it gave of early Indian times. Our imaginations sank exhausted as we attempted to follow the heroine through all her matrimonial complications, I give it as it was dictated to me:

It was dark when we wandered back to the hotel, past the old manse built for the Reverend John Williams by his parishioners after his return from captivity. We were told that some one residing in the house of late had occasion to move a tall piece of furniture in one of the chambers, and discovered a door. Opening this, a secret staircase was found leading from the cellar to the attic. No one living had known of its existence, and many were the wild guesses made as to its object.

When we returned to the hotel we found that father and Mr. Stillman had not yet arrived. Miss Sartoris seemed very anxious, and feared that there might have been trouble in arresting the tramps. Winnie cheered us by suggesting the trout fishing, which Mr. Stillman had reluctantly abandoned when we left Mt. Toby. It would be a good night for fishing, the landlord said; perhaps they had remained for it, since the distance to Toby was too long to be comfortably made three times in one day. After breakfast the next morning, as our travelers were still absent, Miss Sartoris and I unpacked our sketch-boxes and began to make a study of the street from the north end, just at the point where the French and Indians, "swarming over the palisades on the drifted snow, surprised and sacked the sleeping town."

Miss Prillwitz and Winnie, with their botanists' cans, followed a little brook that ran at the back of the hotel, and came back laden with blue German forget-me-nots. Father and Mr. Stillman arrived just before dinner, Mr. Stillman carrying in one hand a string of beautiful speckled trout, and in the other something which looked like a buffalo-robe. He looked very triumphant and happy, while father followed, carrying in a rather sheepish manner—what but the old soldering furnace! We greeted them with so much laughter and so many questions that it was some time before they could give an account of their adventures.

Arrived at the Mount Toby railroad station, they had found it deserted. The men having evidently decided that it was not safe to await the recovery of the bear, had accordingly killed it, and secreted it in a cave at the foot of the mountain. The sheriff knew of this cave, and in examining it in search of the men, found the carcass of the bear.

"And so," exclaimed Mr. Stillman, exhibiting the skin, "I secured my rug, after all, but we concluded that the meat looked rather tough, and we would not take it. I shall express this skin straight to a taxidermist that I know, and have it handsomely mounted."

"But the men!" I asked; "you don't mean to tell me that they escaped?"

"No," replied father; "but if you can't keep quiet I shall not be able to tell you how they were caught. It was this very ill-luck-bringing soldering outfit that did it. When we found that they had left, I suspected that they had taken the morning train for Canada at the Montague station, for no trains stopped at Toby; and in case they had done that, there was hardly a chance of our reaching the station and ascertaining the fact in time to telegraph and effect their arrest before they could leave the country. We had driven from Greenfield pretty rapidly, and our horses were tired; then we took a wrong turning, and got off into Leverett, or some other unhappy wilderness; but after a while we found a farmer who provided us with fresh beasts, and we reached the Montague station toward evening. It was shut up, and the station-master had gone home, but after another half-hour we found him. Yes, our men had bought tickets for Montreal that morning. Then you should have seen our hurry to telegraph; but the station-master advised us to keep cool, and wait a little. 'They bought their tickets,' he said, 'but they didn't go there.' So that was a feint, I thought, to throw us off the track. But no; on their way from Toby they had decided that they would have a cup of coffee, and they had sat down behind a barn to make it on my soldering furnace, and as they were doubtless as tired of carrying the old thing as I was, they left it there. The wind blew the coals into the hay, and in a few minutes the barn was on fire. Someone had seen them leave the yard, and before the train came along for which they were waiting, they were arrested as incendiaries, and taken to the Greenfield jail. As this was precisely where the sheriff wished to take them, there was nothing for him to do but to return and notify the authorities that the men would be wanted soon on more serious charges. And as the station-master informed us that there was some good trout-fishing nearby, we decided to spend the night in Montague. So we let the sheriff and constable drive back to Greenfield without us, and telegraphed Mr. Armstrong that his birds were caught."

"If they only turn out to be his birds!" said Winnie.

"I haf no doubtfuls of zat," said Miss Prillwitz.

"But why did you bring back that wretched little furnace and iron?" I asked.

"Why, the curious part of it is that the farmer who drove us over this morning had found them in the ruins of his barn, and he brought them along, thinking that we might like them to help in identifying the rascals. I couldn't refuse his kindness, but I certainly shall not carry them away from this place. I don't believe in such nonsense, but the gypsy's prediction has come true so far, and they brought bad fortune to the gentlemen to whom I presented them."

Mr. Armstrong, who had been telegraphed for, arrived with a police officer that night; and Miss Prillwitz, father, and Mr. Stillman were absent all the next morning making depositions to aid in the identification of the prisoners.

It was finally decided to remove them to New York to await trial on Mr. Armstrong's charges. We set out that afternoon for Ashfield, our route leading us over beautiful hills, and affording us views of rare loveliness. Ashfield is a village loved by literary men as Deerfield is by artists. Deerfield nestles in a valley, while Ashfield lies on the breezy hill-top; George William Curtis is the centre of the coterie of rare minds who make Ashfield their summer home. Mr. Curtis gives a lecture here once a year for the benefit of the Sanderson Academy. At this time every manner of vehicle brings the country-people over the winding roads, which converge in Ashfield like the spokes of a wheel in their hub. We were not fortunate enough to light on this red-letter day, and we accordingly rested over night at the long low inn, and started early the next morning for uncle's home in Hawley. The distance was short, as the crow flies, but it seemed to be all up-hill. The last mile was through one of those gorges so common in this region, where the fissure between the hills is so narrow that the sun only looks in for two or three hours. Slowly climbing the long, green-vaulted stairway, the dusky tapestry was at length looped back for us, and the road, emerging from the wooded ravine, gleamed yellow-white between the grassy mounds. Crowning one of these knolls stood a long, white farm-house, spreading out wing after wing in hospitable effort to shelter the entire hill-top. Beside the road stood a post with a letter-box affixed, for the reception of the mail left by the daily stage. We passed a huddle of old barns and out-buildings, among which I recognized a carpenter's shop, a carriage-shed, a sugar-house in convenient proximity to a grove of maples, a dairy through which ran the brook, keeping cool and solid the eighty pounds of butter which my cousins made each week, a cider-mill, and behind it an orchard of russet apple-trees, and a long row of bee-hives fronting the flower-garden.

Uncle expected us, and it was delightful to see the meeting between the two brothers, who had not seen each other in twelve years. There were plenty of airy bedrooms, hung with pure white dimity, and after our gypsy life it seemed very pleasant to find once more the comforts of a home. We spent several days at the Maples, attending service in the dear old-fashioned church with its high, square pews.

Aunt Prue had all of our travel-soiled clothing neatly washed, and refilled the emptied hampers and lunch-baskets with abundant supplies from the products of the farm and her own good cookery.

Uncle was a large, easy man, who dearly loved to tell a story to match his own ample proportions, only the twinkle in his eye redeeming him from the charge of deception. Aunt Prue's rigid conscience revolted at uncle's romances. "Asahel Smith!" she would exclaim, "how can you lie like that; and you a church-member?"

"Now, Prudence," Uncle Asahel would reply, "the catechism says a lie is a story told with intention to deceive, and when I told these girls that I drove the oxen home with the last load of hay so fast that I got it into the barn before a drop of water fell, while it was raining so hard behind me that Watch, who was following the wagon, actually swam all the way up from the medder—when I told 'em that, I cal'late I didn't deceive 'em; I was only cultivating their imaginations."

Aunt Prue groaned in spirit, and began to sing, in a high, cracked voice.

While at The Maples we made an excursion to Cummington, formerly Bryant's home. We sat in the library, shut in by a thick grove, where he composed his translations of the Odyssey and Iliad, and we played with a little pet dog of which he had been very fond. Not far from the estate is a fine library, Bryant's gift to the little town. "Bryant's River" is a brawling little stream which flows through a very picturesque region. We amused ourselves by fancying that we recognized spots described in several of his poems.

There was a grand old oak upon the place which might have inspired his lines—

The scenery about Cummington and Hawley tempted us to a frequent use of our sketching-materials. Mr. Stillman, too, found several birds new to him, and took some beautiful landscape photographs. Miss Sartoris gave him new ideas about choosing views where mountain and cloud, trees and reflections, composed well, and his photographs became much more artistic. He began to talk about the importance of placing his darkest dark here, and his highest light there, of balancing a steeple in this part of his picture by a human interest in the foreground, of massing his shadows, of angular composition, of tone and harmony, and the rest of the cant of the studio. Nor was it all cant; Miss Sartoris had taught him to see more in nature than he had ever seen before, and while his ambition had hitherto been to secure sharp photographs of instantaneous effects—mere feats of mechanical skill—his aim was now to produce pictures satisfying to highly cultivated tastes. He acknowledged that all this was due to Miss Sartoris, who had opened a new world to him, though it seemed to me that he really owed quite as much to Miss Prillwitz, but for whose influence he would never have taken up photography. I was a little jealous for our princess, and felt that, though Miss Sartoris was young and fair, and Miss Prillwitz old and wrinkled, this was no reason why honor should not be rendered where honor was due.

There was a pond with a bit of swamp land on uncle's farm, which he considered the blot on the place, but which Miss Sartoris declared was a real treasure-trove for a picture. One end was covered with lily-pads, and great waxy pond-lilies were opening their alabaster lamps here and there on the surface, while the yellow cow-lilies dotted the other end with their butter-pats. Cat-tails and rushes grew in the shallower portions, and here was to be found the rare moccasin-flower, a pink and white orchid of exquisite shape. Miss Sartoris painted a beautiful picture here. She said it reminded her of the pond which Ruskin describes with an artist's insight and enthusiasm.

"A great painter sees beneath and behind the brown surface what will take him a day's work to follow; and he follows it, cost what it will. He sees it is not the dull, dirty, blank thing which he supposes it to be; it has a heart as well as ourselves, and in the bottom of that there are the boughs of the tall trees and their quivering leaves, and all the hazy passages of sunshine, the blades of the shaking grass, with all manner of hues of variable, pleasant light out of the sky; and the bottom seen in the clear little bits at the edge, and the stones of it, and all the sky. For the ugly gutter that stagnates over the drain-bars in the heart of the foul city is not altogether base. It is at your will that you see in that despised stream either the refuse of the street or the image of the sky; so it is with many other things which we unkindly despise."

We all regretted when our short visit at The Maples came to an end, but Miss Prillwitz felt that she must be hastening back to the Home, and we had already transgressed the bounds which we had set to our outing. We decided to vary our journey by returning through Berkshire. We drove, the first day, to Pittsfield, a flourishing little city, and now for the first time we felt ourselves out of place in the peddler's carts. Nowhere else had we attracted any special attention. It was a common thing for tin-peddlers to take their feminine relatives with them on their jaunts, and as we dressed very plainly, and conducted ourselves with gravity, no one gave us a second look.

At Pittsfield, however, we came in contact once more with "society," and the loungers on the hotel veranda gave us a broadside of astonished looks as we alighted. "It is very disagreeable to be stared at in this way," Winnie remarked to Miss Prillwitz as we entered.

"My tear," replied the good lady, "it takes four eyes to make a stare."[A]

Winnie colored deeply, for she knew that if she had been less self-conscious she would not have felt the curious and impertinent gaze. We left Pittsfield so early the next morning that none of the hotel loungers were on the piazza to comment on our appearance.

We drove, that day, over the lovely Lenox hills, once covered by stony pastures, dotted here and there by lonely farm-houses, but now a succession of beautiful parks and aristocratic villas and mansions. Mr. Stillman had his camera out, and photographed a number of the handsome residences as we passed, and one of the gay little village-carts driven by a young woman dressed in the height of fashion, and presided over by a footman in livery.

"That does not seem to me a sensible way of going into the country," said Winnie. "I don't believe she has half the fun that we have in this old caravan."

"Perhaps not," I replied, "but I presume that Adelaide and Milly are driving about in much the same style; and we know that better-hearted girls never lived."

We picnicked near "Stockbridge Bowl," a lovely lake, blue as Geneva and encircled by beautiful hills. As father brought out the lunch-hamper I noticed a queer expression on his face. "What do you suppose I have found stowed away in the back part of the cart?" he asked.

"Not the soldering furnace?" we all replied, in unison.

He smiled grimly, and, instead of replying, placed it before us. "That Deerfield landlord must have packed it up without your knowledge," said Miss Sartoris. "Its reappearance is becoming really amusing; let us make one grand final effort to get rid of it by sinking it in the middle of the lake."

"Will you do it?"

"Certainly."

Miss Sartoris took the furnace and ran down to the lake, whence she presently returned empty-handed.

"Did you drown the creature?"

"Not exactly, but I gave an ancient fisherman whom I found there a quarter to commit the crime for me. I told him that it was something which we were tired of, and never wished to see again, and he promised me, in rather a mixed manner, that 'human hand should never find hide nor hair of it, nor human eye set foot on it again.'"

A general laugh followed this announcement. How should we know that the man's suspicions were excited by Miss Sartoris's anxiety to get rid of the object, and that instead of sinking it in the middle of "the Bowl" he wrapped it carefully in brown paper, and labeling it "To be kept till called for," hid it under the bank! "Somebody will come for that object," he said to himself; "shouldn't wonder if it was wanted at court as circumstantial evidence of somethin' or 'nother."

Another event occurred while we were resting at "the Bowl." Miss Sartoris remarked that a view which she had obtained as she returned from the lake was the most enchanting that she had seen on the trip. "How I wish that I had time to sketch it!" she said.

"I will photograph it for you," Mr. Stillman exclaimed, with alacrity, "if you will kindly show me just where you would like to have the view taken."

They walked back together, a turn in the road hiding them from our view. We waited for them a long time, and at length father became impatient and drove on, leaving me to hold Mr. Stillman's horses. When they came back there was an expression on their faces which told everything. I should have known it even if Mr. Stillman had been able to keep the words back, but he was too happy to be silent. "You were lamenting, this morning," he said to me as he took the reins, "that we had only two more days to journey together."

"That is all," I replied, "unless Miss Sartoris and you have decided to make a longer trip."

"Yes," he replied, "you have guessed it exactly: Miss Sartoris has just consented to journey on through life with me."

I was surprised, and yet, when I came to think of it, I saw that I ought to have suspected it from the time they first met; and, all things considered, they were admirably suited to each other. So I could only rejoice in their happiness, though I wondered, a little selfishly, what Madame's would be without Miss Sartoris, and whether I should ever have a teacher whom I should love as well.

When we caught up with the other cart father asked whether he got a successful negative.

"No," replied Mr. Stillman, "I didn't get a very decided negative, and I confess I didn't want one."

There was a look of blank astonishment on all their faces, and then a peal of laughter as his meaning dawned upon them. After the storm of congratulations and exclamations had ceased, Miss Sartoris suddenly exclaimed, "You left your detective camera!"

"That is so," Mr. Stillman replied, "Shall we drive back after it?"

"Not unless you want to catch that shower," father remarked, pointing to a threatening cloud.

"I'll get you ladies under shelter first, and then I really think I must look it up," said Mr. Stillman. But before we reached Stockbridge we met a coaching-party conducted by a nattily dressed young man of slender build, who managed his spirited four-in-hand with considerable skill, and who reined them in as we approached, exclaiming, "Stillman! by all that's odd!" Mr. Stillman introduced the gentleman as a Mr. Van Silver, an old friend from the city, and mutual explanations followed. He was now on his way to Lenox, and agreed to stop at the spot which Mr. Stillman indicated, and if he could find the camera express it to Mr. Stillman at Scup Harbor.

Very little more of interest to the reader occurred until we reached home. We followed the Housatonic for the greater part of our way, and when we had nearly reached its mouth, drove across to New Haven, from which port, having completed our round-trip, we took the steamer for home. Father found a letter from Mr. Armstrong in relation to the thieves taken in Montague, who were proved to be the criminals of Rickett's Court, whose retribution shall be related in the next chapter. The little boys left in mother's care had conducted themselves in as exemplary a manner as could be expected, there having been no cases of really bad conduct, and only two slight accidents.

Miss Prillwitz took them under her wing and left with them for the Home, all looking happier, browner, and rounder for their stay in the country. Winnie regretted that our scheme for filling the treasury of the Home had not been a success, since the aggregate of money made by peddling tinware and rockets, and by taking tintypes, did not meet the expenses of the trip. Mr. Stillman, however, insisted on presenting the institution with a handsome check, "as an inadequate thank-offering," so he said, for the great blessing which had come to him in our journeying "over the hills and far away."

Miss Sartoris left almost immediately for her own home, and Mr. Stillman followed her soon after. Two express packages came to him before he left us. One was the bearskin, handsomely mounted, the other was preceded by a note from his friend Mr. Van Silver, which said that he had overtaken a venerable fisherman walking off with his camera, and that it required considerable persuasion of a "sterling quality" to rescue it from him. Mr. Stillman opened the package with grateful anticipation, and found—the soldering furnace!

CHAPTER XV.
THE ESTATES DEL PARADISO.