A queer tract of land it was, with a great rift of rock running through it where the children played house, and had parties, and occasionally took their dinner out to eat in picnic fashion. Just beyond the strata of rock, on the good ground, stood two splendid apple-trees called "Jersey Sweetings," and for nearly two summer months their bounty was the delight of the children. Farther down, the ground sloped abruptly and settled into a pleasant orchard; then another sudden decline, and here a pretty stream came purling through, making a tiny cascade as it tumbled over the rocks. The little girl was deeply touched by beauty; and as they ran around she stopped now and then to drink in the shady vistas and wild nooks that seemed fairy-haunted. She had been reading a little mythology, and she could believe in a great many things. There were places where she looked to see Pan piping on his reed, and dryads and nymphs coming out of the groves. How they did run and play! The air was merry with shouts and laughter. Some of them took off their shoes and stockings, and waded in the brook. And one of the big boys proposed that on Saturday afternoon they should go down to the Harlem River and get some crabs and clams. There were enough children for a second table, and that was laid in the upper kitchen. Auntie thought they must be starved; but instead they had been stuffed with sweet apples. Still most of them did justice to the bountiful dinner. "This little girl looks tired out," said grandmother. "I think she had better stay in and rest a while." Hanny was very glad to do this. While grandmother took her nap, she went upstairs where the grown-up people were talking and sewing. She wished she had brought her crocheting; but Polly had laughed her out of it. Then she took up a book, and was soon lost in that. It was an English novel, as most of our novels were then, "Time the Avenger." "That is a rather sad book for a little girl," said Cousin Jennie. "I'll see if I can't find you something better. You look as if you were fond of reading. You are Vermilye Underbill's little girl. And your brother George has gone to California. I know him quite well, and the Yonkers family. I suppose he hasn't found his nugget of gold yet?" The little girl smiled, and said she did not think he had yet. His letters had been full of the wonderful country; and it took so long to get a letter. "Here are some magazines with pictures and verses. Are you fond of poetry? Maybe you are a poet. You have a delicate, ethereal look." "Do poets have that?" asked Hanny. "I know a girl who writes verses and stories; but she isn't at all ethereal. I'm quite sure I couldn't write verses or anything," and she gave a soft laugh. "Well, I think geniuses look quite like other people. I've seen a number of them lately. We have a genius living up the road, and ever so many people come to see him. Some quite famous ladies." Hanny opened her eyes very wide.