Let me say a word about that wood--dear and familiar as it was. Its like I have never since seen. It was small--so small that in its darkest depths you might catch the sunshine lighting up the branches of its outside trees. A young wood, too--composed wholly of smooth-barked beeches and sturdy Scotch firs, growing up side by side--the Adam and Eve in this forest Eden. No old folk were there--no gnarled and withered foresters--every tree rose up, upright in its youth, and perfect after its kind. There was as yet no choking under-growth of vegetation; nothing but mosses, woodbine, and ferns; and between the boles of the trees you could trace vista after vista, as between the slender pillars of a cathedral aisle. John pointed out all this to Miss March, especially noticing the peculiar character of the two species of trees--the masculine and feminine--fir and beech. She smiled at the fancy; and much graceful badinage went on between them. I had never before seen John in the company of women, and I marvelled to perceive the refinement of his language, and the poetic ideas it clothed. I forgot the truth--of whose saying was it?--"that once in his life every man becomes a poet." They stood by the little rivulet, and he showed her how the water came from the spring above; the old well-head where the cattle drank; how it took its course merrily through the woods, till at the bottom of the valley below it grew into a wide stream. "Small beginnings make great endings," observed Miss March, sententiously. John answered her with the happiest smile! He dipped his hollowed palm into the water and drank: she did the same. Then, in her free-hearted girlish fun, she formed a cup out of a broad leaf, which, by the greatest ingenuity, she managed to make contain about two teaspoonfuls of water for the space of half a minute, and held it to my mouth. "I am like Rebecca at the well. Drink, Eleazer," she cried, gaily. John looked on. "I am very thirsty, too," said he, in a low voice. The young girl hesitated a moment; then filled and offered to him the Arcadian cup. I fear he drank out of it a deeper and more subtle draught than that innocent water. Both became somewhat grave, and stood, one on either side the stream, looking down upon it, letting its bubbling murmur have all the talk. What it said I know not: I only know that it did not, could not, say to those two what it said to me. When we took leave of our acquaintances Mr. March was extremely courteous, and declared our society would always be a pleasure to himself and his daughter. "He always says so formally, 'my daughter,'" I observed, breaking the silence in which they had left us. "I wonder what her Christian name is." "I believe it is Ursula." "How did you find that out?" "It is written in one of her books." "Ursula!" I repeated, wondering where I had heard it before. "A pretty name." "A very pretty name."