The day following, John Landis drove to the railroad station, several miles distant, to meet his niece. As Mary stepped from the train into the outstretched arms of her waiting Uncle, many admiring glances followed the fair, young girl. Her tan-gold naturally wavy, masses of hair rivaled ripened grain. The sheen of it resembled corn silk before it has been browned and crinkled by the sun. Her eyes matched in color the exquisite, violet-blue blossoms of the chicory weed. She possessed a rather large mouth, with upturned corners, which seemed made for smiles, and when once you had been charmed with them, she had made an easy conquest of you forever. There was a sweet, winning personality about Mary which was as impossible to describe as to resist. One wondered how so much adorable sweetness could be embodied in one small maid. But Mary's sweetness of expression and charming manner covered a strong will and tenacity of purpose one would scarcely have believed possible, did they not have an intimate knowledge of the young girl's disposition. Her laugh, infectious, full of the joy of living, the vitality of youth and perfect health and happiness, reminded one of the lines: "A laugh is just like music for making living sweet." Seated beside her Uncle in the carriage, Mary was borne swiftly through the town out into the country. It was one of those preternaturally quiet, sultry days when the whole universe appears lifeless and inert, free from loud noise, or sound of any description, days which we occasionally have in early Spring or Summer, when the stillness is oppressive. Frequently at such times there is borne to the nostrils the faint, stifling scent of burning brush, indicating that land is being cleared by the forehanded, thrifty farmer for early planting. Often at such times, before a shower, may be distinctly heard the faintest twitter and "peep, peep" of young sparrows, the harsh "caw, caw" of the crow, and the song of the bobolink, poised on the swaying branch of a tall tree, the happiest bird of Spring; the dozy, drowsy hum of bees; the answering call of lusty young chanticleers, and the satisfied cackle of laying hens and motherly old biddies, surrounded by broods of downy, greedy little newly-hatched chicks. The shrill whistle of a distant locomotive startles one with its clear, resonant intonation, which on a less quiet day would pass unnoticed. Mary, with the zest of youth, enjoyed to the full the change from the past months of confinement in a city school, and missed nothing of the beauty of the country and the smell of the good brown earth, as her Uncle drove swiftly homeward. "Uncle John," said Mary, "'tis easy to believe God made the country." "Yes," rejoined her Uncle, "the country is good enough for me."