"I shall be most happy;" but when he saw this haughty lady changed into a blushing girl with a half shy, and altogether winning manner, and heard her say, "Will you not please accept part of my lunch, for I have a great abundance?" then the fluent speech for which he was noted, forsook him, and he stammered out some incoherent words, and then—they looked squarely into each other's eyes, and, by a common impulse, broke into a merry laugh. The ludicrous side of it all was too irresistible. After that they felt acquainted and it was easy to accept the appetizing favor with a gay grace, and insist that she had been entirely too generous, although in truth, he felt equal to any number of biscuits. "That is because you do not know what a capacious lunch basket I possess, nor how well it is stored, thanks to Aunt Ruth," Marian said, while she hastened to get ready a donation for the old lady, who had wakened, and was wondering at the cheerful sounds about her. It "quite chirked her up," she said, "to hear something going on once more." The two young people talked together some minutes before they recollected that the rules of etiquette required that strangers should have introductions. Then the gentleman produced a card,— "STUART LYNDE, Attorney and Counsellor at Law." And Marian said simply, "I am Marian Chester of Massachusetts." It would seem as if their tongues rejoiced at privilege of speech again, for the talk flowed on most delightfully. Themes were endless—the accident, the surrounding country, and people, and the advantages and disadvantages of both East and West. They compared notes finally on favorite authors, and travelled over countries both had visited, until they almost forgot that they were wrecked on a dreary prairie, miles from anywhere. Mr. Lynde was somewhat puzzled to find a young lady who had read biographies, history, Shakespeare, and the other standard poets, and yet seemed to be ignorant of the works of well-known writers of fiction, and was obliged to confess that she had not read "Jane Eyre," old as it was, nor "Romola," nor even the lighter novels that most schoolgirls have devoured by the time they are fifteen. "No," she said, "I know almost nothing of them; my father has his own ideas in regard to these things," and she said it reverently and sweetly, as if "anything that my father wishes is good and right;" not; "My father is an old fogy, and I, a martyr, am obliged to suffer the consequences—"