Under one of the maples, standing on tiptoe, and reaching up to the bright branches, was a young girl. The little figure was trim and neat in soft gray suit and well-fitting thick boots. She was no sylph-like maiden that a breath might blow away. Every curve of her form was instinct with life and energy, yet the attitude was the personification of grace. Her broad-brimmed hat had fallen back on her shoulders, and the upturned face was eager and rosy as a child's as she reached a plump hand far above her head, and almost grasped the coveted scarlet branch; like a child's, too, in the wave of disappointment that swept over it when she found her utmost efforts unavailing. She picked up the basket at her feet, already half filled with ferns, and moved on a few steps; then her face glowed again, and her eyes beamed on some new discovery. This was apparently no city maiden, come out for a sentimental stroll, for down she went on her knees before a clump of wood violets growing about an old stump. Eagerly she seized her trowel, carefully loosened the earth about them, and lifted them almost reverently into her basket. Mr. Thornton was a devout admirer of the beautiful in art and nature, but he had not lived thirty years without knowing that a fair face and form may hide a hollow heart. He had studied, in the galleries of Europe, perfect faces, painted by the old masters; he had met in society women gifted with glorious beauty, and discovered that one was no more soulless than the other, consequently mere external charms failed to impress him deeply. And yet, screened by the friendly sumach, he watched with keen interest the pretty pose under the tree, and the childish attitude on the ground, as the energetic little worker lifted root after root of the homely plants into her basket. And this, not alone because she made a pretty picture, but it was refreshing as a breath of mountain air to discover one who could bring such enthusiasm to autumn leaves and a few wildwood plants, and step about with that joyous, unconscious air as if it were not in her nature to think of herself, or do anything for the mere sake of effect. She fitted in well with the bright sky, bracing air and song of birds. He loved simple pleasures so much himself that he shared in her delight. As she disappeared into the woods far enough away for him to escape observation, he came and stood under the tree that had refused to give her one of its branches. From his height it was easy to reach the very one the little hand had aspired to; he broke it off, and several other bright sprays still higher up, then he dropped two or three of the finest just in the path by which she must return. And this he did, not from mere sentimentality; he would have done the same for any wrinkled old woman. It was this man's nature to help everybody to what they wanted, if it were right and he could do it.