Among the few books which the Ross family had brought from their Kentucky home were two or three which Alison read and re-read whenever she was kept indoors by a norther or by any slight illness. Her favorite of these was Spenser’s “Faerie Queen.” This appealed to her by its quaintness of language no less than by its recitals of the adventures of knights and ladies, for while Alison possessed much practical good sense she was an imaginative girl and indulged in day-dreams of such a romantic character as few guessed who saw her roping in an obstreperous calf, or beheld her, paddle in hand, absorbed in working a lump of butter. Her romances, save the one in which Blythe figured, had been of such a nature as to win nothing but her contempt, for it was not to be supposed that either she or Christine would be unsought in a country where men were greatly in the majority. But Alison flouted all her lovers, made fun of them to her girl friends and seemed utterly devoid of sentiment, so her sister told her, for even she did not know of Alison’s air-castles. These day-dreams concerned a dashing young knight who for her sake would undertake some arduous quest and, wearing her colors, would go through weary adventures returning at last to claim her hand. She knew all this was rather foolish, but novels were few and romance she must have. She was amusing herself one day with thoughts of her imaginary knight as she was riding home from a visit to Louisa. The summer had come and gone, bringing no great change. In spite of continued hope nothing more definite had been learned of Steve. Pike Smith had disappeared utterly, and there was no hope of ever seeing Hero again. Christine had refused more than one bluff suitor and into her brown eyes was creeping the patient look of one ever seeking, ever hoping against repeated disappointment. The friendship between John and Laura remained upon a comfortable basis, but it was believed by every one concerned that they would one day marry.