“Poor Malina, you are tired out,” she murmured fondly, “but we are so glad to get you home once more. I only came to say this—now go to sleep again.” So Phebe kissed her cheek, let the curtains fall softly over the bed and went away—and still Malina dreamed on. The next morning Mr. Mosier took up his abode at Mrs. Gray’s. Our minister had called the elders of his church around his death-bed, and besought them to let this young man fill his place in the pulpit, so he was to remain a few months, on trial, and then be installed as pastor in the old meeting-house. Our young pastor, though never gay, was at all times filled with a degree of tranquil enjoyment that diffused itself over all things that surrounded him—his sadness was never gloomy, and when he seemed thoughtful, it was the quiet repose of a mind communing with its own treasures rather than an unsocial humor. He was musical as well as studious, and often, during those summer nights when Mrs. Gray’s family sat in the portico, would we assemble round the door of our dwelling to hear the notes of his flute, as they mingled in some sacred harmony with the soft clear voice of Phebe, or with the bolder and richer tones of her sister. At such times this music, softened by distance, and blended with the still more remote sound of the waterfall, seemed almost heavenly. We became well acquainted with the young minister, for though not exclusively of his congregation, he loved to ramble about the pine grove and the waterfall, where he was certain to find some of “us children” at play. Like all pure hearted men, he was fond of children, and loved to sit down in the shade and talk with us for hours together, when he would lead us to the gate, on his way home, and sometimes walk into the cottage for a glass of water and a few minutes’ chat with its inmates. Sometimes Phebe Gray and her sister accompanied him in these walks, and once or twice I remember to have seen him standing on the ledge near the falls at sunset, with Phebe leaning on his arm, while he seemed deeply occupied with her rather than the surrounding scenery. Once when they were together thus, he slightly bending toward her and speaking in a low earnest tone, while her eyes were fixed on the waters foaming beneath their feet, Malina, who had lingered behind to help me up the rocks—for I was often of their party—moved lightly toward them, holding up her finger to me with a look of good natured mischief, as if she intended to startle them with her sudden presence. I was a very little girl and knew that Malina was doing this to amuse me, so clapping a hand over my mouth to keep from laughing aloud, I stole on softly by her side till the folds of my pink dress almost mingled with the white muslin that Phebe wore. I have said that Mr. Mosier was talking low and earnestly—he was, in truth, so earnestly that our mischievous progress neither aroused him nor his companion. I was not aware that love could