his veins, an' he've a-had a queerish sort o' bringin' up. He's all that again' him. We must be patient wi' he an' l'arn en gradual. He's one what'll be led an' not druv-I can see that. There's times when I do fear as he'll be like to give ye trouble now an' agen. But there, you do love en true, an' true love is the best taycher. He'll l'arn from you best of all, for he do think a deal of you, my dear. I could see for myself from the first how much took up wi' you he were, an' 't was that made me willin' to give en his chance. I did judge en by my own feelin's i' the past, an' I do know as my sweetheart could ha' done anything wi' me, shart o' makin' me go agen my conscience.'

Rosie was silent, and he continued with an awkward laugh.

'You'm not likely to try an' make Rufe do anything agen his conscience 't is t'other way round, I d' 'low. But you must l'arn en to do what's right. An' now, my dear, if ye'll take my advice, ye'll go indoor. Ye've a-been a bit hard on Rufe this day. I seed it, but I could n't say nothin' along o' me bein' a bit hard wi' yourself. All feelin's-nothin' makes us so hard on one another as feelin's. Ye see, ye did hurt Rufe's feelin's, and when a lad like he's hurt in his feelin's as often as not he'll go to the public. I would n't watch out for he to-night. Go indoor an' go to bed, an' when ye do see en i' the marnen be soft an' kind like, an' he'll be ready to do anythin' for 'ee.'

'I do thank ye, Mr. Blanchard,' said Rosie solemnly. 'I do thank ye from my heart. There, ye don't know how much good ye've done me.'

She turned and went indoors as he had advised, but Solomon re

mained for a few minutes staring down the road before he followed her.

'It's best to let her follow her fancy,' he said aloud. "The chap midden' be all us could wish, but he's her fancy.'

Lying beside Granma in the billowing feather bed, Rosie thought over the farmer's words, and her heart melted within her, while at the same time she was conscious of a new strength of purpose. She would forgive and forget all that had shocked and offended her in Rufe, because, as Mr. Blanchard said, true love ought n't to be hard; and she would teach him everything he ought to learn. She would teach him to know right from wrong, to begin with. How could he do what was right if he never was taught? And she would educate him in other ways too. It would be nice to teach him to read and write and cypher. Rufe was so quick-witted he would soon pick up all that she could impart. She would buy a few simple school books no later than the morrow, and the course of instruction should begin the first spare hour.

In the morning she approached the young man himself. He was still disposed to be sullen, and she was at first inclined to lose courage, but she conquered the momentary hesitation.

"T was my fault for twitin' him,' she reflected.

'Rufe,' she said aloud. Us did get all across each other yesterday, but I'm sorry for havin' been so sharp with 'ee, an' I be willin' for to make friends.'

His face softened and lit up.

'You'm a good maid, Rosie,' he murmured. 'It's me what was bad. But I'll start fresh, I promise 'ee.'

They kissed then, and Rosie said joyfully:

"That's the very thing I want. Ye see, I did expect too much. You did never learn what was right an' what was wrong, did ye, Rufe?'

'No,' said Rufe. We had but the one rule, me an' my folks: "Help yourself an' make the most o' your chances."

'Oh, Rufe,' whispered Rosie, 'ye did help yourself to the hen, didn't ye?'

He looked at her sharply and then, warned by come cunning intuition, nodded.

'She did run out an' I did see her in the moonlight an' I just catched her. Ye see, 't is terrible a'k'ard not to have a penny in your pocket't won't be pay-day till Saturday.'

Rosie was silent for a moment, bitterly recognizing the justice of Granma's surmise, and then she spoke tremulously:

'But ye won't steal any more, will ye, Rufe? It's a dreadful sin to steal. An' ye won't drink? There, I think it 'ud break my heart if ye was to go drinkin'.'

'I'm not a drinky chap, as a rule,' rejoined he with his engaging smile. "T was along o' me bein' so vexed yesterday I did just feel I didn't care about nothin'.'

'I know, I know, an' that was my fault. But I'll not vex ye any more, an' you'll promise me not to go to public, won't ye?'

Rufe readily promised, and Rosie went on to assure him that if ever he wanted a shillin' or two to spend in any way, she generally had a little money that she could spare. This seeming to be entirely satisfactory, she proceeded to unfold her educational project, to which Rufe agreed with evident amusement.

'Will ye give me the rod when I don't know my lessons?' he asked, his bright eyes dancing.

'I don't know but what I will,' rejoined Rosie, laughing.

Mrs. Bond was somewhat crestfallen at the light-heartedness of the young couple, and at the benevolent interest with which Solomon took note of it; and as days passed her confidence waned still more. So far from having been shaken by Rufe's recent lapses, the girl seemed to be more taken up with him than ever, an element of tenderness seemed to have crept into her attitude towards him which boded ill for the old lady's hopes. The irritability which she had been so pleased to note in Solomon, moreover, had now given place to a placid and contented state, which exasperated her beyond measure.

One day after the farmer had made some jocular query with regard to the progress of the lessons, she said snappishly as the door closed behind the lovers:

'You do seem very well pleased at the way things be goin' on. You do seem to think my gran'darter be a-doin' very well for herself. 'Tis a uncommon good joke to your mind as she is to marry a man what she has to l'arn his A B C to, an' what I'll go warrant does n't put by much out of his twelve shillin' a week.'

'I think they'm happy,' said Solomon. 'An' I'm pleased they'm happy. Rosie 'll teach en more nor

A B C.'

He heaved a sigh and leaned forward, looking into the fire pensively. 'I could very well like to go to school to Rosie,' he added.

'I reckon 't is a bit late to think o' that,' grunted Granma with irrepressible bitterness.

Ah, 't is too late,' agreed the farmer with gentle melancholy. My schoolin' days are over, Mrs. Bond. I could ha' been a apt scholar in wold times, though.'

'Rosie did ought to ha' summat better to mother nor that young limb. She did ought to have a husband what she could lean on an’ look up to a proper man, Mr. Blanchard. That's a woman's happiness. She should keep the motherin' for his children.'

The farmer gazed dreamily into the fire without speaking. Mrs. Bond's words seemed to conjure up a pretty picture. By and by, however, he pushed back his chair and reached for his hat.

'No use talkin' o' they things to a wold bachelor-man,' he said. 'Miss Rosie's chose for herself.'

On the following Sunday Rosie stepped up the flagged path which led to Little Branston church with a proud and happy face, for Rufe was by her side. Rufe in a nice clean shirt, with a white collar which she had surreptitiously starched, with his dark hair well brushed and a posy in his coat, looked as likely a lad as is to be met on a summer's day. When he joined her in the hymn, which she had carefully taught him on the previous evening, his tenor voice rang out strong and sweet, and many heads were turned to look at the singer. But the old clergyman took startled note of something wild and bold in the roving dark eyes, the glance of which he could never hold, no matter how impressively he sought to fix them when making a particular point.

'Well, there!' exclaimed Rufe, when he at length found himself without the sacred precincts, 'how that wold chap did carr' on! I wonder he did n't get tired o' the sound o' his own voice.'

'But ye heard what he was sayin',

Rufe, did n't you?' said Rose anxiously. 'It was nice what he was sayin' about John the Baptist and the Jordan."

"One more riv-er," trolled Rufe, bursting into song, ‘an' that's the River Jordan. "One more river, one more river to cross!"—I could like a dip in the river very well to-day. Perhaps I'll go for a swim this afternoon.'

'No, no,' said Rosie, with a pretty pretense of severity; 'Sunday school this afternoon.'

He stopped short, frowning.

'Sunday school?'

'Only for you an' me,' she rejoined quickly. 'I thought we mid go up the field to the little wood where the periwinkles grow, an' I could read 'ee a chapter an' tell 'ee about it. Ye don't know much about religion, do ye Rufe?'

'No,' said Rufe absently, for again his eyes had wandered in the direction of the river.

'It'll be nice in the little wood,' said Rosie coaxingly. 'It'll be so nice an' shady as anything. An' 't is quite a story what I'm goin' to read to 'ee. You did ought to like to hear about John the Baptist. He did live for a many years in a wild place where he could n't scarce get nothing to eat except locusts an' honey.'

'What's locusts?' asked he.

'Well, some says 't is a kind o' bean, an' some say 't is a insec”.'

'I would n't like to eat insec's,' commented Rufe, grimacing.

'Perhaps 't is a bean, then,' rejoined Rosie accommodatingly. Her pretty white teeth flashed out in a smile that was half arch, half ingratiating. Rufe smiled back at her.

'I don't mind Sunday school in the little wood, with you for my taycher,' he said.

They set forth, therefore, in the afternoon up the winding lane and through a gate which led into a field of green wheat, every ear standing up stiff and straight on that breathless summer's day. It was so hot that Rosie had donned the white frock which she had worn for her Confirmation, with a bunch of roses in her bodice to match the rose in her hat and the living roses in her cheeks. Rufe gazed at her admiringly as he strolled along beside her, very close on account of the narrowness of the path, and holding the crook, of her arm in recognized lovers' fashion. But he was impatiently conscious of the warmth of his Sunday suit and the stiffness of his well-starched collar.

'You can sit on my coat,' he remarked, when they reached the periwinkle wood. 'I'm just about glad to get rid of it.'

Rosie was a little disappointed, for she had much approved of her sweetheart's appearance in his conventional garb, and her disappointment turned to dismay when he not only divested himself of his coat, but of his collar, and tore open his shirt at the neck, his firm column of throat showing intensely brown in contrast to the white linen.

'Oh, Rufe, don't! Suppose anybody come by,' she protested. 'It midden' be Sunday.'

'You did say Sunday was a day of rest,' he rejoined with twinkling eyes; if anybody d' pass they'll just say, "There's a tired chap ares'ing hisself this warm day." I I could n't rest wi' thic stiff collar an' that thick coat. Rosie, I could fair eat ye to-day, you do look so vitty in thic frock-white, like a bride. Ye'll be my bride one o' these days.'

She gave him a quick, startled look. She was not imaginative, and her aspirations were centred on the

stage when Dad and Mother would consent to recognize Rufe as her sweetheart. It would be nice to feel that they could court with the approval of her parents, that Rufe could drop in at dinner-time and sit beside her, and take her out of an afternoon. To be the wife of this wild youth was another thing.

'One o' these days,' she rejoined hastily, 'when you've got a lot of sense, Rufe, an' saved a lot o' money.'

She opened her little Bible quickly as he frowned.

'Shall I read to ye now?' she asked. 'There's heaps o' time,' he rejoined. 'I be so martal hot. Let's cool down a bit first.'

He tossed off his cap and passed his hand through his thick hair, ruffling it up in a way which scandalized his companion.

'Ye do look a reg'lar wild man o' the 'oods,' she said reprovingly.

'I d' like to keep my head cool,' he answered. 'I've a notion.'

He pulled up four or five long strands of the periwinkle which crept all about them, and leaping to his feet, ran to the little stream which bordered the upper end of the wood, returning with a wreath of green, dripping tendrils wound round his locks.

"That'll keep I so cool as anything,' he said. "T is near so good as a cabbage leaf.'

He dropped beside her again, his eyes laughing at her from under the green penthouse; he tossed his head occasionally when the drops trickled over his brow.

'Now ye can read,' he said, noting the displeasure in her face.

Mr. Masterman, the clergyman of Little Branston, chanced to be concluding the meditative Sunday round in which he occasionally indulged between the services; and his way

took him along the track which the lovers had followed. This path led round the outskirts of the little wood, and his intention had been to pursue it, when the sound of a girl's voice fell upon his ear. It was a sweet voice, and she was reading slowly and reverently.

""And gather His wheat into the garner; but He will burn up the chaff with unquenchable fire!" The voice paused and then said in a colloquial tone: "That means the good an' the bad, ye see. The wheat stands for good people what do go to heaven when they do die, an' the chaff means wicked folks what will have to go to the bad place.'

'Sunday school in the woods,' said the Rector to himself, and impelled by curiosity, he turned aside and followed the little track among the periwinkles. In a few minutes he came upon the couple ensconced in a shady place under the beeches: the girl sitting very straight, the book open on her knee, her whole attitude, every fold of her white dress, rigidly decorous; but what wild figure was that at her feet? The old man's startled gaze took note of the sprawling freedom of the strong limbs, of the uncovered throat, of the bare brown arms, for Rufe had rolled up his shirt sleeves as high as they would go; but, above all, his attention was arrested by the face, by the expression of the bold, hard, black eyes which seemed to dance beneath the crown of leaves. Here was no Christian scholar drinking in holy knowledge, but a survival of the pagan world which had passed away.

As Rosie, perceiving him, would have risen to her feet, he checked her by a gesture.

'No, no, stay where you are, child. Who are you? Let me see, I seem to know your face.'

'Please, sir, I'm Rosie Bond. I did often visit my Granfer when he were a-livin' at the Glebe Farm.'

"To be sure, to be sure. I must have seen you often when he was my tenant. I heard your grandmother was staying at the farm. But who is this? What is your name, my boy?'

Rufe had made no effort to get up, but continued idly kicking his heels together, his face supported on his hands; he glanced up with a kind of amused curiosity at the old man.

'My name's Rufe Lee,' he said. 'Rufus, I should say, but I'm mostly called Rufe.'

The Rector turned to Rosie. There was something oddly disconcerting in Rufe's hard, bright gaze. He gave the girl a quick, puzzled look.

'I heard you reading aloud just now,' he said. 'Very right — very suitable for Sunday afternoon. But still-is this young fellow a relation of yours?'

'No, sir,' said Rosie, but we 'm we 'm walkin' out. He's Mr. Blanchard's dairy-chap-We 've knowed each other a long time,' she interpolated hastily. 'Granma knows we'm walkin' out. Rufe has n't had much eddicassion,' she continued after a pause, and I be a-tryin' to teach he.'

'I see,' said the Rector. 'I noticed that you did n't seem to make much of my sermon this morning,' he continued, turning once more to Rufe. 'You did n't understand, I suppose?"

'No,' admitted Rufe, and then, annoyed by something disapproving in the clergyman's expression he added: "I didden listen half the time.'

He turned over, yawned, and sat up, jerking the moisture from the dripping tendrils as before.

'Well, we have classes,' said the Rector gently. 'We have Bible classes for youths as well as children.