"If it wasn't a sermon, it was something better," answered cheery Mrs. Parton.

"Most magnetic speaker," the colonel was remarking to some one.

And now Rosalind and Belle claimed Celia's attention, demanding to know what she thought of the detective; and she must come back to earth and listen and reply and enter into their gayety—an easier matter, to be sure, than responding to the comments of grown people.

The next morning, on her way to class, Celia met Miss Betty and Dr. Hollingsworth walking up the hill toward the Gilpin house, and Miss Betty stopped and presented her companion.

After some moments' chat about other things, as they were separating, Celia said, "I want to thank you, Dr. Hollingsworth, for my share of your sermon yesterday." Her face made it evident that this was no merely conventional speech, and the president looked down upon her benignly through his glasses.

"I thank you for being willing to take any of my thoughts to yourself," he said.

Celia now noticed for the first time that he wore an oak leaf, and she remembered with what delight Rosalind and Belle had told her of his wish to be an Arden Forester. "I believe," she added, laughing a little, "that I have the Kingdom of Heaven and the Forest somewhat mixed."

"You will find when you have lived as long as I have that there are often many names for the same thing," the president answered, smiling.

"And do you believe that things always come right in the Forest?" The wistful note in Celia's voice told something of her struggle.

"It has been my experience so far on the journey. But, my dear young lady, the one way to test it is to live there."

"I mean to," she said earnestly.

Whatever the opinion in Friendship of Dr. Hollingsworth's ability as a preacher, he left behind him a most agreeable impression as a mere man, to quote Mrs. Parton.

The Arden Foresters would not soon forget a tramp with him over Red Hill. They found him interested in everything, in a light-hearted, boyish way that made them overlook the fact that he was the president of a great university. When they stopped on the hilltop to rest and enjoy the view, he sat on the fence with them and talked foot-ball and cricket, and told stories of college pranks without deducing a single useful lesson therefrom. This was a surprise to Jack, for Dr. Pierce, who lived next door to the Partons, was fond of morals, and went about with his pockets full, so to speak.

Before they knew it, they found themselves confiding to him their plans for the future.

"You must all come to our university," Rosalind said, with decision, "mustn't they, Dr. Hollingsworth? Jack can study forestry, and Maurice can study law; and Belle and Katherine—"

"I mean to study medicine if father will let me," Belle put in.

Dr. Hollingsworth smiled upon the bright-eyed little girl, in whose every movement self-reliance and energy were written. "Don't be in haste to decide," he said. "There is sure to be something for you to do, and Rosalind and I shall be glad if, whatever it is, it brings you to our university."

As they watched the president sign his name in the Arden Foresters' book that afternoon, there was stirred in each young heart an impulse to be and to do something worth while in the world.

Meantime, the report spread that in returning to Friendship, Dr. Hollingsworth had had another object than merely to preach for Dr. Pierce.



CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVENTH.

OLD ENEMIES.

"Kindness nobler ever than revenge."

If things came right in the Forest, it was not through effort. One had simply to surrender to its spell, to breathe in the beauty and the calm, to live there, as the president had said.

Celia's thoughts were interrupted by Sally's hurried entrance.

"Laws a mercy! Miss Celia, honey, Mrs. Whittredge's in the parlor. I come mighty nigh askin' her what she wanted in dis yere house."

Celia looked up in astonishment. Mrs. Whittredge! What could it mean? "And she asked for me?" she repeated.

"I done tol' her your mamma was sick, but she 'lowed 'twas you she wanted."

Celia recovered herself. "Very well, Sally," she said, but it was with a beating heart she walked the length of the hall. Her enemy! What did it mean?

Mrs. Whittredge, her heavy veil thrown back a little, stood beside the table in the centre of the room.

"You are surprised, Celia," she said, as they faced each other, "but there is something I wish to say to you. No, I will stand, thank you."

Celia waited, feeling, even in the midst of a tumult of emotion, the tragic beauty of the dark eyes.

Mrs. Whittredge seemed to find words difficult. She looked down at the table on which her right hand rested. "I have made many mistakes," she began, "but—I have never meant to wrong any one. At the time of my husband's illness I—there were things said—I did not agree with Dr. Fair, and I may have gone too far. It is my misfortune to be intense. I was very unhappy. I thought the case was not understood. It was my mistake." She paused.

"And my father died, crushed by the knowledge that he was unjustly blamed for the death of his friend! The discovery of your mistake comes too late." Celia's voice was tense with the stored up pain of those two years.

Mrs. Whittredge drew back. "You are hard," she said. "We look at things from different standpoints. I have told you I wish to wrong no one, but—ah, your father was cruel—cruel to me!"

"My father was never cruel," Celia cried.

"Listen! He told me I was killing my husband. I, who worshipped him. I, who—God knows—would have given my life to—" she broke off in a passion of grief, sinking into a chair and burying her lace in her hands.

Celia stood abashed and trembling before this revelation of a sorrow deeper than her own,—the sorrow of self accusation and unavailing regret.

"Have you been wronged, are you hard and bitter? Seek the Kingdom of love. Your Heavenly Father knoweth. He will take care of your cause." For a moment Celia struggled against the wave of pity that was sweeping over her, then forgetting everything but the suffering of this woman bowed before her, she knelt by her side.

"Forgive me," she whispered. "I do not want to be hard. I, too, have suffered, though not like you. Perhaps we wronged the dead by keeping bitterness in our hearts. Perhaps to them it is all made right now. I will forgive; I will try to forget."

Mrs. Whittredge lifted her head. Her face was drawn and white.

"I cannot forget," she said; "it is my misery. But I have no wish to make other lives as unhappy as my own. Will you believe me when I say I regret the wrong I did, and that I want to interfere with no one's happiness hereafter?"

"I will believe it," Celia said, holding out her hand.

Mrs. Whittredge did not refuse it; but her own was very cold in Celia's clasp. Drawing her veil over her face, without another word she left the house.

Celia sat still, dazed by the sudden onward sweep of things. A meaning, a possible motive, beneath Mrs. Whittredge's words occurred to her as her heart began to beat more quietly. "To interfere with no one's happiness hereafter." Could Allan—but no, she would not let herself think it. She would stay in the Forest, and work and wait, and trust in its beneficent spell.



CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHTH.

BETTER THAN DREAMS.

"I like this place, And willingly could waste my time in it."

The engagement of Miss Betty Bishop and Dr. Hollingsworth was announced. As Miss Betty said, there was no use in trying to keep it a secret with Mrs. Parton spreading her suspicions abroad.

"If you had confided in me and asked me not to tell, I shouldn't have breathed it," that lady protested.

"Oh, yes, you would," Miss Betty said, laughing. "You know you tell everything; but, after all, there's no harm done, and no reason why it should not be known. I don't blame people for being surprised, either. I am surprised myself, and I see the absurdity, but—"

"There is no absurdity about it. I am delighted. Dr. Hollingsworth is charming. I'd be willing to marry him myself if it wasn't for the colonel, and you are going to be as happy as happy can be." Mrs. Parton laughed her pleasant laugh, clearly overjoyed at what seemed to her the good fortune of her friend.

Rosalind first heard the news from Belle. "Why," she said, "if he marries Cousin Betty, the president will be related to me."

"Let's frame Dr. Hollingsworth's picture and give it to her," Maurice suggested.

This was hailed as a brilliant idea, and that afternoon the five might have been seen in the picture store in search of a frame for the stolen photograph. It was an excellent likeness of the president, and an equally good one of black Bob, who, happening to pass at the critical moment, had been included unintentionally.

The proprietor of the store, getting an inkling of the joke, hunted up a small frame which, with the help of a mat, answered very well. Then the Arden Foresters proceeded to Miss Betty's, where they delivered the package into Sophy's hands and scampered away, their courage not being equal to an encounter with her mistress.

At the bank gate they separated, Belle going in with Katherine to practise a duet they were learning, and Jack hurrying home with the fear of his Latin lesson before his eyes. Maurice walked on with Rosalind.

"Come in for a while," she said.

The air was crisp, but the sunshine was bright, and the bench under the bare branches of the white birch seemed more inviting than indoors. As they took their seat there, Rosalind said gayly, "Father will be here this week. We are not sure what day."

"And then you will have to go," Maurice added discontentedly.

"Yes, and I am partly sorry and partly glad. I am so glad I came to Friendship, Maurice. Just think how many friends I have made!"

"How long ago it seems—that day when you spoke to me through the hedge. You must have thought I was a dreadful muff," said Maurice.

Rosalind laughed. "I thought you were cross."

"I was in a horrid temper, but I didn't know how horrid until you told me the story and I read in the book what your cousin wrote about bearing hard things bravely. I suppose if it had not been for you, I should have gone on being a beast."

"I was feeling pretty cross myself that day. I didn't know then what a pleasant place Friendship is. I think I have found a great deal of joy by the way, as Cousin Louis said," Rosalind continued meditatively.

"And I thought my summer was spoiled," Maurice added.

"It just shows you can never tell," Rosalind concluded wisely.

"Are you sure you won't forget us when you go away?" Maurice wanted to say "me," instead of "us," but a sudden shyness prevented.

"Why, Maurice, I couldn't! Especially you; for you were my first friend." The gray eyes looked into his frankly and happily.

After Maurice had gone, Rosalind still sat there in the wintry sunshine. Things seemed very quiet just now, with Uncle Allan away for a week and Aunt Genevieve not yet returned. She and her grandmother were keeping each other company, and becoming better acquainted than ever before. Mrs. Whittredge's glance often rested upon her granddaughter with a sort of wistful affection, and once, when their eyes met, Rosalind, with a quick impulse, had gone to her side and put her arms around her. Mrs. Whittredge returned the caress, saying, "I shall be sorry to give you up, dearie."

On another occasion Rosalind had told how surprised she had been to find that her grandmother did not wear caps and do knitting work. "But I like you a great deal better as you are," she added.

Mrs. Whittredge smiled. "I fear I am in every way far from being an ideal grandmother," she said.

Rosalind thought of all this, her eyes on the dismantled garden. The flower beds were bare, the shrubs done up in straw, the fountain dry, and yet something recalled the summer day when she had sat just here learning her hymn. She remembered her old dreams of Friendship, and now she decided that the reality was best. She shut her eyes and tried to think just how she had felt that Sunday afternoon.

"What is the matter, little girl?" The magician's words, but not his voice; nor was it his face she looked into.

"Father!" she cried,—"you dear! Where did you come from?"

It was some time before any connected conversation was possible.

"Why, father, how brown you are!"

"And Rosalind, how tall you are, and how rosy! To think I have lost six months of your life!"

"And I want to tell you everything just in one minute. What shall I do?" Rosalind said, laughing, as she held him fast.

It did indeed seem a task of alarming proportions to tell all there was to tell; Rosalind felt a little impatient at having to share her father with her grandmother that evening. And there was almost as much to hear,—of Cousin Louis, whose health was now restored, but who was to spend some months in England, of their adventures, and the sights they had seen.

"We shall want something to talk about when we get home," she was reminded.

It would have been plain to the least observant that Patterson Whittredge's life was bound up with that of this little daughter. As he talked to his mother, his eyes rested fondly on Rosalind, and every subject led back to her at last.

Rosalind, looking from her father to her grandmother, noted how much alike were their dark eyes, but here the resemblance ended. Mrs. Whittredge's oldest son, although he might possess something of her strong will, had nothing of her haughty reserve. His manner, in spite of the preoccupation of the student, was one of winning cordiality. Older and graver than Allan, there was yet a strong likeness between the brothers.

Rosalind could not rest until she had taken her father to all the historic spots, as she merrily called them,—Red Hill, the Gilpin place, the cemetery, and the magician's shop, of course.

"Friendship has been good for you, little girl," he said, as they set out far a walk next day.

"I used to think that stories were better than real things, father, but it isn't so in Friendship. At first I was—oh, so lonely; I thought I never could be the least bit happy without you and Cousin Louis; but the magician and the Forest helped me, and since then I have had a beautiful time. I love Friendship. I almost wish we could live here."

"And desert Cousin Louis and the university?"

"No, I suppose not; but we can come back in the summer, can't we? And, oh, father dear, you'll join the Arden Foresters, won't you?"

As they walked up the winding road at the cemetery, Mr. Whittredge heard something of those puzzles which had so disturbed Rosalind's first weeks in Friendship, beginning with the story of the rose.

"It's funny, father, but I hadn't thought till then that grown people had quarrels. I might have known it from the story of the Forest; I remembered that afterward, and how things all came right."

"Poor little girl! You should have been warned; and yet in spite of it you have learned that realities are better than dreams."

"Father," Rosalind asked abruptly, "why was it you did not come to Friendship for so many years? Did not grandmamma like my mother? I think I ought to know."

Mr. Whittredge smiled at the womanly seriousness of the lifted face. "I think you ought, dear," he answered.

With her hand clasped in his he told her the story briefly, for even now he could not dwell upon it without pain, and as Rosalind listened she discovered that she had already heard a bit of it from Mrs. Parton and Mrs. Molesworth at the auction.

"We must try, you and I, not to think too hardly of grandmamma now. She has suffered a great deal, and it was your mother's earnest wish that the trouble might be healed if the opportunity ever came." Patterson said nothing of his own struggle to forgive his mother's attitude toward his young wife.

"I think, father," Rosalind said, "that perhaps grandmamma is sorry. One day, not long ago, I saw her looking at mother's picture. She did not know I was there. She took it from the table and held it in her hand, and I am sure she was crying a little."

That was a happy day, for now they put aside sad memories, and turned to the merry side of life, Rosalind kept forgetting that her father had been in Friendship before, and continued to point out objects of interest with which he had been familiar long before she was born. So full were the hours that it was growing dusk when they turned into Church Lane to call on the magician.



CHAPTER TWENTY-NINTH.

AT THE MAGICIAN'S.

"I would have you."

Over his work these days the magician often smiled. It seemed to him that the good in things was beginning to show very plainly. The atmosphere of Friendship was clearing; the trouble which had first shown itself when Patterson Whittredge left his home had begun to lift with the coming of his daughter. Not that Rosalind had anything to do with it; it was only one of those bits of poetical justice that go to make life interesting.

An onlooker might have observed that he smiled oftener when engaged on the spinet than at other times; but if the magician had made any more discoveries in connection with it, he kept them to himself.

Now that the days were growing chill, a cheerful fire blazed on his hearth, before which Crisscross and Curly Q. dozed; he had found time to renew the motto over the chimney-piece, and the window-shelf was full of plants. The Arden Foresters appeared to regard the place as a club-room for their special benefit, and dropped in at all hours. The magician liked to have them there. As he sandpapered and oiled and polished, it was pleasant to glance in, now and then, at the open door, at a row of bright faces in the chimney-corner.

Once in a while Celia joined them for a few minutes. She wanted to know about the purchaser of the spinet, but Morgan seemed inclined to evade her questions. He did not deny that there was a purchaser, but the name had apparently escaped him.

Belle suggested that it might be the same mysterious individual who had bought the house, and Morgan accepted this as a happy solution when it was mentioned to him.

The cabinet-maker was a very queer person at times.

Celia sat in one corner of the high-backed settle alone this afternoon. Belle, who had come in with the news of the arrival of Rosalind's father the evening before, had just gone, and Celia, who had spent a busy morning, was reflecting that it was too late to begin a new task, and that she might as well allow herself to rest. Of late she hid taken life more quietly.

"Morgan seems to have gone out. May I come in?" It was Allan Whittredge who spoke, standing in the door.

"He was there a moment ago," Celia answered, rising.

"May I wait for him here? You agreed we were not to be enemies; can't we go a step farther, and be friends?"

Celia found no reply to this, but she sat dawn again.

Allan took the arm-chair and faced her. "I seem to be always forcing myself on you, but I'll promise you this is the last time," he said.

Still Celia had nothing to say, but she allowed him a glance of her dark eyes which was not discouraging.

Allan went on: "I am so tired of mistakes and misunderstandings that, before the subject is closed forever between us, I want you to know the exact truth in regard to my feelings.

"When I received your letter putting an end to things, at first I was hurt and angry, and I tried to persuade myself that it was for the best after all. You see, I did not know your side, and you will forgive me if I confess I thought you childish and lacking in deep feeling. Then, two years later, I saw you with the children, coming down the stairs at the Gilpin house, and something made me feel dimly that I had wronged you; but still I could not understand, until some words of Cousin Betty's suddenly made it clear. It was maddening to think what my long silence must have seemed to mean to you. Then, for the first time, I saw the real barrier between us, and the more I thought of it, the more impenetrable it became.

"But it is hard for me to give up. I have looked at it on all sides; I went away that I might think more clearly about it, and of late I have begun to hope. I believe that love worthy of the name lives on in spite of everything, and I have dared to wonder if your love could have weathered this storm; if you still cared, though it might be only enough to give me the chance to win you again." Allan bent forward in his earnestness, his eyes fixed appealingly upon the small, still figure in the corner of the settle.

"Do you not care at all, Celia?" he asked, after a moment's silence.

Celia lifted her eyes. "Care?" she cried, "I have always cared,—through everything! When I thought you knew and believed the cruel charge against my father; when I knew his heart was broken; when he was dead,—when I wanted to hate you, still I cared. Have you cared like that?"

This vehement confession, with its note of defiance, was bewildering. Allan hesitated before this unapproachable, tempestuous Celia. Then he drew his chair nearer. "Celia, dear heart, do not speak so; I have not been tried like you, but give me the chance and see how I will atone for the past."

Suddenly Celia held out her hand; "Oh, Allan, I am so very bad-tempered. I seem always determined to quarrel," she said, with a laugh that was half a sob.

This was enough, the strain was broken; Allan forsook the arm-chair for the settle.

It was perhaps some fifteen minutes later when he asked Celia if she remembered the magician, and the tiger with three white whiskers. "What a brave little girl you were," he added.

"Little goose," said Celia.

"Does that mean you will no longer follow me blindly?"

She laughed. "What made you think of it?" she asked.

"Rosalind inquired the other day if I was the boy."

"Allan, I don't know why I told the children that story."

"At least it gave me the courage to try my fate."

"I don't think it required much courage."

"You don't know," Allan replied, smiling over her head. "But now, dearest, we are going to begin again and live in a fairy tale and forget all the hard and cruel things. Do you know, I had a vision that day, in the library of the old house? I saw a fire of blazing logs, and you and I sat before it, and we weren't quarrelling."

"Dear old house! I can't bear to look at it now," Celia sighed.

"I am sorry to hear that, for I was planning to live there."

"Allan—you? Wasn't it sold?"

"I bought it through an agent. I thought perhaps I might want to sell again if—if things did not come out as I hoped."

"Even then you were thinking about it?"

"I have thought of nothing else since the day I saw you on the stairs with your arm around Belle."

"How unhappy I was! I did not dream that you still cared. It seems so long ago. Did you know your mother came to see me, Allan?"

"Yes. She has keen eyes; she knew what it meant to me. Poor mother!"

"I thought I could never forgive, but I believe I do now,—not always,—but I shall after a while."

Allan pressed his lips to the hand he held; then, still holding it, he took the little case from his pocket and put the sapphire ring on her finger. "I hope Cousin Betty will be satisfied now," he remarked.

Celia looked down at the quaint old ring. "How much it seems to stand for!" she said. "Rosalind will be glad," she added. "Do you know, I did not realize how bitter and unhappy I was until I met her one day in the cemetery. Her eyes were so sweet, they made me ashamed."

"She told me about it," Allan answered.

"Not about the rose? Did she see that? Oh, Allan—but I picked it up again and carried it home."

"She long since came to the conclusion that she was mistaken in thinking it was her rose you threw away."

It was growing dark. The magician, who had come in long ago, wisely refrained from interrupting his guests, but went about putting away his tools and smiling to himself. He was just lighting his lamp, when the shop door opened and Rosalind danced in, followed by her father.

"Mr. Pat!" exclaimed the magician. "I heard you were here. I wondered if you wouldn't come to see me;" and he shook hinds as if he would never stop, while Rosalind circled around them merrily.

"Mr. Pat was one of my boys," Morgan announced, as if it were a piece of news; adding, "We ought to make some tea."

Rosalind clapped her hands, and nodded emphatically, "Let's!" she cried. "Why, there's Uncle Allan! Where did you come from?"

"I arrived at home a few hours ago and found nobody, so I started out in search of some one. How are you, Patterson?" and the brothers clasped hands warmly.

"We are going to have tea, just as I did that day when I was so lonely, and—here's Miss Celia!" Rosalind paused in surprise.

Celia stood rather shyly in the door. She would gladly have escaped if she could.

At Rosalind's exclamation, Allan drew his brother forward. "You remember Celia Fair, Patterson?" he said.

"Certainly I do. She was about Rosalind's age when I last saw her."

"I remember you very well, Mr. Whittredge," Celia said, as Patterson took both her hands, and looked into her glowing face.

"I haven't been told anything, but—" he glanced inquiringly at Allan, who nodded, smiling.

Rosalind caught sight of the ring on Celia's finger. "Oh," she said, "was that what the will meant? Are you going to wear it always? I know Aunt Patricia would be glad!" and she hugged Celia joyfully.

That what followed was a childish performance cannot be denied, but alas for those who do not sometimes enjoy putting away grown-up dignity! Rosalind had set her heart on having tea, and the magician was no less pleased at the idea. He lighted up and filled the kettle, and she set the table, while the others looked on and laughed.

"I began being a boy again four months ago, and I like it. How old are you?" Allan asked, passing Celia her cup.

"About six," she answered.

"Then I am ten."

"Then you are too little for me to play with," said Rosalind. "How old are you, father?"

"If Allan is ten I ought to be about sixteen, I suppose."

"Here's to the magician!" cried Allan, and they drank the cabinet-maker's health right merrily.

"I drink to the ring which has come to its own again," said Rosalind's father; and so the fun went on.

Celia forgot her shyness and was a happy little girl once more.

"Let us drink to the Forest and all who have learned its secret," she proposed.

In the midst of it all, Miss Betty walked in.

"Well!" she exclaimed, "I think you might have asked me."

"It isn't too late. This is an impromptu affair in honor of Patterson," said Allan, offering her a chair.

"You have no idea what a noise you are making," she said, greeting the stranger. "I had just come in from a guild meeting, and the unusual illumination and the sounds of hilarity were too much for my curiosity." Here her glance rested in evident surprise upon Celia.

"Celia has something to show you, Cousin Betty," Allan said mercilessly, "and you are not to bother me about it any more."

Miss Betty went around to Celia and kissed her. "It is what I have been hoping all along," she whispered.



CHAPTER THIRTIETH.

OAK LEAVES.

"Bid me farewell."

"I have something to tell you," said Belle, as the Arden Foresters walked up the hill toward the Gilpin place.

"So have I," added Rosalind, "something lovely," and she waved a small package aloft.

"Is it something for us?" Katherine asked.

"Let Belle tell hers first. Mine must wait till we get to the oak tree."

"It is about the ring. I have found out how it came to be in the spinet," Belle announced.

"Really? How?"

"Lucy Brown, Aunt Milly's granddaughter, put it there," she began, all eagerness to tell her news. "Aunt Milly, you know, was Mr. Gilpin's cook, and Lucy had come in from the country to stay with her a few days, when he was taken ill. The morning he died she found the case with the ring in it under the library table, and she carried it into the drawing-room, where she was dusting, meaning to show it to her grandmother. Just as she had opened the spinet some one called to her to run for Dr. Fair, that Mr. Gilpin was dying, and in a great hurry she pushed the ring case under the strings and closed the lid and forgot all about it. She went home before anybody knew the ring was lost, and never thought of it again till she came to Friendship the other day and our Manda was telling her about the magician's finding it."

"I am almost sorry we know how it happened," said Rosalind. "I liked to think the magician had really broken the spell."

It was the last meeting of the Arden Foresters before Rosalind's departure, and in spite of the wintry day they decided it must be held under the oak tree; and little cared they for the weather as they rustled through the fallen leaves beneath the bare brown trees.

"I believe it is going to snow," said Jack, turning up his collar.

"If you'll stay we'll take you coasting down the Gilpin hill," Maurice added.

"I am afraid if I waited it wouldn't snow," Rosalind answered, laughing, "And now I have something to show you." They had reached the arbor, and sitting down she opened the box she carried.

"You know we have been wondering what we should do for badges when the leaves were gone. Just see what the president has sent!" and she displayed to their delighted gaze five small, enamelled oak leaves.

If Dr. Hollingsworth was sensitive to compliments, his ears must have burned badly about this time. Belle summed them up by remarking, "I just believe he is almost the nicest man I ever knew."

They stood together under the oak tree, and Rosalind pinned on the new badges. "Let's promise to be friends, whatever happens," she said, "because we know the Forest secret and have had such good times this summer."

The sun shone out brightly for a moment as the wind swept over the hilltop, rattling the vines on Patricia's Arbor; under the autumn sky the winding river sparkled as gayly as when its banks were green; on the far-away stretch of yellow road the wintry sunshine lay; and under the red oak they clasped hands and promised to be friends always.

THE END