Alison tipped back her head upon her clasped hands and fixed her eyes upon the fleecy clouds drifting across the blue sky. “He must not be too young,” she began, “nor too wise in such things as I cannot understand, like Latin and--law. He must be tall and muscular and rather dark than fair. He must be brave and cheerful under difficulties and true as steel, loving the things that grow out of doors, and animals and skies and streams more than books. He must make me feel that wherever he is I have a sure protection, for he must be a ready fighter either for his country or for me, yet he must not be one who tries to pick a quarrel or is coarse and ignorant and shiftless. He must know how to make his way among men, but must be chivalrous towards women; not a dandy, though, nor one who makes pretty speeches and then lets a woman wait on him and do the things which it is his right to do. He must love his home, but be no loafer and idler. He must be witty and entertaining, but not silly. Of course he must ride and shoot and do all those things well and must have a reputation as an Indian fighter and all that.” “You require a great deal,” said Blythe in a dejected tone. “Not more than you.” “But I have found my ideal.” “And I have not, unless it be my brother John, for he is my pattern.” Blythe turned from her, resting himself upon his two elbows: “It would take a great many years for a man to fit himself to that pattern,” he said. “Yes, he’d have to begin young, as young even as you, I suppose,” said Alison nonchalantly. “And by the time he had reached your ideal the girl he cared for would be married.” “Very likely; if she were to marry at all. She might be like Hannah Maria and be fond of all love stories except her own.” “The girl I mean could never be like Hannah Maria.” Alison laughed merrily. “You don’t know what twenty years can do to a woman, especially down here where people grow careless.” Blythe’s eyes roved over Alison’s neat dress, her soft hair, smooth and tidy except where the little curling tendrils were blown about her face by the breeze, and he shook his head. “She could never look like Hannah Maria,” he insisted. “If she turns out to be half as good and unselfish, she may count herself lucky,” said Alison. “Hannah Maria may not be beautiful in face and figure, but she has a beautiful spirit, as our minister at home used to say. Do you ever get homesick, Blythe? I do.” “Yes, I do sometimes, but never when I am with you.” “You should not get homesick when you are not with me, for you have a home and a mother. I wish I had a mother.” “You don’t know how good my mother is,” said Blythe eagerly. “She often says that when I bring home a wife she will love her as her own daughter.”