“Over there we live,” and the child pointed to a cottage half hid among the trees. It seemed a perfect love of a cottage. Frank felt irresistibly tempted to go and see “Agneth;” but he merely kissed the little Nina good-by and put her down. The child went to her pebbles and Frank turned toward his home. He had gone but a few steps on his homeward path, when a slight scream caused him to look around, his little friend in attempting to cross the small bridge of planks, had slipped and fallen into the brook. An instant more and Frank was on the way toward Nina’s home, with Nina in his arms. The little girl was wet and frightened, but did not seem hurt. She nestled tremblingly in his bosom, making no complaint, save a low sob that came less and less frequent. “There is my mamma!” exclaimed she, as Frank entered the garden gate. Nina sprang from his arms and ran up to her mother. Frank thought he had never seen so beautiful a creature; she did not seem older than his sister Clara. “See, mamma!” eagerly said the little Nina. “Here is Frank. I fell into the brook and he took me out. Wasn’t he a nice Frank? You must love him, mamma.” The mother rested her eyes, full of gratitude upon the young man: her eyes, so dark and earnest, spoke to his soul. He felt a new life spring up within him; a life he had only dreamed of till then. Her eyes were of that peculiar shade of hazel, neither light nor dark, sometimes both, at times almost blue: a ring of heaven enclosing a world of earthly love. Agnes led the way into the cottage, and asked Frank, with a voice as sweet as her eyes were beautiful, to follow her. She left him in the drawing-room, taking with her the little Nina. Frank had time to admire the rooms, as he stood drying his clothes by the cheerful grate; the days had then begun to be somewhat chilly. All around bespoke the most elegant simplicity, the utmost refinement. The eye of the young man was delighted as it wandered around the room—books, music, flowers—all was softness and ease. Frank was enchanted. Still more was he enchanted when, all radiant, the sweet mistress of the cottage entered. A thousand smiles of joy beamed from every part of her face. “She brightened all over,” like Moore’s Nourmahal. Her face was of that strictly classic mould, so beautiful even unaccompanied by expression. Expression was her chief attraction: the color came and left her face as shadows do beside a bright fire. Soul was in all she did. _Her_ soul was like a blazing mass of pearls—bright and soft. Frank was completely charmed. She thanked him so prettily for rescuing her child—was afraid he would take cold—were his clothes perfectly dry? “Perfectly,” replied Frank.