“I am truly glad. I hated to give up right now. It seemed to me as though I could see the open door of culture but had not reached it, and had a lot of things to learn before I had any right to consider myself fit to pass through it. Mother and Kent together decided it must be managed for me. They are both bricks, anyhow.” The young people had come to the little purling brook during this conversation, and at Molly’s instigation had turned down the stream and entered, through a break in the worm fence, a beautiful bit of woods. The beech woods in Kentucky are, when all is told, about the most beautiful woods in the world. No shade is so dense, no trees more noble, not even oaks. With the grace of an aspen and the dignity of an oak, the beech to my mind is first among trees. “Of all the beautiful pictures That hang on Memory’s wall, Is one of a dim old forest That seemeth the best of all. “Not for the gnarled oaks olden, Dark with the mistletoe, Not for the violets golden That sprinkle the vale below. “Not for the milk-white lilies Leaning o’er the hedge, Coquetting all day with the sunbeams And stealing their golden edge.” Molly quoted the verses in her soft, clear voice, adding: “I say ‘gnarled oaks olden’ for euphony, but I always think ‘beech.’ I don’t know what Miss Alice or Phœbe Gary, whichever one it was who wrote those lovely verses, would think of my taking such a liberty, even in my mind.” “No doubt if Miss Alice or Phœbe Cary could have seen this wood, she would have searched about in her mind for a line to fit beeches and let oaks go hang. This is really a wonderful spot. Can’t we sit down a while? I hope your mother will let me have right of way through these woods when I build my nest in the orchard. This makes my lot more valuable than I thought. I have never seen such beech trees; why, in the East a beech is not such a wonderful tree! We have an occasional big one, but here are acres and acres of genuine first growth. You must love it here even more than in the orchard, don’t you?” “Well, you see the orchard period is what might be known as my early manner; while the beech woods is my romantic era. I used to come here after I got old enough to roam around by myself, and a certain mystery and gloom I felt in the air would so fill my soul with rapture that (I know you think this is silly) I would sit right where we are sitting now and cry and cry just for the pure joy of having tears to shed, I suppose! I know of no other reason.” Professor Green smiled, but his eyes had a mist in them as he looked at the young girl, little more than a child now, with her sweet, wistful expression, already looking back on her childhood as a thing of the past and her “romantic era” as though she had finished with it.