Until that moment, Sibella had not realized the strength of the hope she cherished. She veiled her disappointment from the observation of others; and her mother had the good sense to forbear saying, “I told you so.” No conversation passed between them on the subject; but when Sibella retired to her sleeping apartment, she gazed out on the moonlighted solitude of the prairie for a long time, and thought the expression of the scene never seemed so sad. She said to herself, “My mother told me truly. That beautiful experience was indeed a dream of early youth; and _only_ a dream.” She was under the necessity of returning to Chicago the next day, to attend to her school. In another department of the school, was a teacher from New England, a farmer’s son, who had worked with his hands in the summer, and studied diligently in the winter, till he had become a scholar of more than common attainments. He taught school during the week, and occasionally preached on Sunday, not because he was too indolent to perform manual labour, or because he considered it ungenteel. He was attracted toward books by a genuine thirst for knowledge; and he devoted himself to moral and intellectual teaching, for the simple reason that God had formed him for it. He loved the occupation, and was therefore eminently successful in it. This young man had for some time been in love with Sibella Flower, without obtaining any signs of encouragement from her. But there is much truth in the old adage about the facility of catching a heart at the rebound. He never wrote poetry, or spoke eloquently about the beauties of scenery; for his busy intellect employed itself chiefly with history, science, and ethics. But though he was unlike Edward Vernon, he was gentle, good, and wise; and, after her morning-dream had vanished utterly, Sibella became aware that his society furnished pleasant companionship for heart and mind. Their intimacy gradually increased, and they finally married. Being desirous to purchase land and build a house, they continued to earn money by teaching. The desired home, with its various belongings, seemed likely to be soon completed, without great expense; for William Wood had all the capabilities of a genuine Yankee. He could hew logs and plane them, make rustic tables, benches, and arbours, and mend his own shoes and saddles, during the intervals of preparing lectures on chemistry and astronomy. In this imperfect existence, there is perhaps no combination of circumstances more favourable to happiness, than the taste to plan a beautiful home, practical skill to embody the graceful ideas, and the necessity of doing it with one’s own hands. Those who have homes prepared for them by hired architects, gardeners, and upholsterers, cannot _begin_ to imagine the pleasure of making a nest for one’s self. William was always planning bridges, arbours, and fences, and Sibella never saw a beautiful wild shrub, or vine, without