The rudeness of the whole scene disturbed Mark, for Rosalie’s sake. She felt that it did. She looked at him with a gladdening smile, exclaiming— “Oh! I like it, Mark. I like it so much. Everything is so new and strange, and so free and easy. And so large and grand,” she added, going to one of the windows, and looking out, with delighted eyes, upon the magnificent virgin country. “The air is fine here, Mark. There is a springiness and life in it I never felt before, even on the mountains. And see, the fog is all dispersed already.” “Yes—it’s allowed to be healthy in these parts; no ague here,” said the landlady. “And so near the river—that is strange,” said Mark. “Well, you see the winds blow mostly from the shore; and the fog—when there _is_ a fog—settles on the other side of the river. And then, many folks allow that this, being a high, lime-stone country, is naterally healthy.” “Have you many boarders now?” inquired Rosalie, kindly interesting herself in the fortunes of her hostess. “Only bachelors, for constant. Sometimes, when a boat-load of people arrive, we have a house full, till they gets settled or goes somers else,” replied the landlady, setting the coffee-pot on the table, and ordering her lord and master to go to the door and blow the horn. She then invited her guests to sit down to breakfast, and had just begun to help them, when her other boarders, the bachelors—half-a-dozen robust, rudely-clothed, but earnest, intelligent-looking men—entered, and gathered around the table. The breakfast was plain, but substantial, well-cooked, and abundant. And our young pair, as well as the bachelors, did justice to the fare. After breakfast “the bachelors” left the table and the house, and went about their various businesses—some to their stores, some to their workshops. The landlady bustled about to wash up and clear away her breakfast service; and Mark Sutherland followed his young wife to the window, and said— “And now, dear Rosalie, I must leave you here, _at least_ till noon.” “You must?” “Yes; there is much to be done, that must be done immediately. Lauderdale’s deserted law office must be opened and aired, and my sign—or _shingle_, as the folks here call it—tacked up, and the place generally prepared for the transaction of any business that may turn up. Then I have to write and send off an advertisement to the nearest newspaper—which, by the way, is published in a town thirty miles distant. And lastly, dear Rose, I have to look up a cabin, or part of a frame house, where ‘two mortal mice,’ like you and I, may go to housekeeping. Whether all this can be accomplished in a forenoon, or not, I do not know; but, at all events, I shall try to be back again at twelve. Good bye.” And, pressing her hand, he left her.