We rode a long way to-day, for our visitors were old people, who cared more for talking with uncle and aunt about their fathers and grandfathers and great-uncles, than for all Mr. Cullen and I had to say to them. And the day and the scenery were magnificent. I wonder if you know, Edith, mine, that one never needs go to Italy because one is longing to look upon deep blue skies, sunsets, and moonlights splendid enough to bewitch one; and upon mountains, great and small, ranging off like troops of living monsters. One needs only come to New England; here, to this hilly town, Danville. And one should come, at least once in one’s life, in the winter of the year; for the so much bepraised summer glory must yield to the winter, if many mountains are in the scene, and such noble ones as Mount Washington and its kindred. Their snowy lights are softened by the distance, and their shades deepened, so that, at midday, it is as if they were all of pearl. They lie along the whole eastern horizon; and when the sun takes a golden setting, there can hardly be any thing much finer of its kind in all Italy, in all Switzerland, I imagine; for a reflected glory is upon the mountains as varied nearly, nearly as intense as that which immediately surrounds the sun. We talked of Alice to-day as we rode; and Mr. Cullen had serious eyes and hushed tones, as if he had infinite tenderness for her memory. “I think as your uncle and aunt do, that you are like Alice in many respects, dear Monde,” said he, leaning a little toward me, as if he felt tenderness for me, in that he felt it for the dead Alice. “Only,” he added, “as the judge says, you have much the superior character. You have, I see, the pliancy of the reed, when you need to bend, and the consistency of the oak, when you need to stand erect. I like the way you bear praise,” added he, after a little pause. “I suppose you would bear the same amount of fault-finding as quietly.” “Try me, and see.” “Yes; for instance, if I tell you that you have a certain obstinate self-reliance, piquant to see.” “Well?” “And then if I were to tell you that I like the little wickedness, like to close hands with it, and master it.” “Then I would tell you that you are downright vicious! But you don’t master it; you never can!” “Yes; you ride with me when you have just been saying that you certainly will stay at home. I throw away your pen and hold you fast, when you have just been saying that you will write, that you care less for me than for your old pen. Don’t you remember it?” “Yes.” “So do I. I like to remember it, because, for some reason, it is better mastering you once, than any other woman that I know ten times.”