“And you've grown so much prettier,” he retorted boldly. A flush crossed her face, and her look grew a little wistful. “The rain has bewitched you,” she said. “You may call me a fool if you like,” he pursued, as if she had not spoken, “but I did not know until to-day that you had the most beautiful hair in the world. Why, it is always sunshine about you.” He put out his hand to touch a loose curl that hung upon her shoulder, then drew it quickly back. “I don't suppose I might,” he asked humbly. Betty gathered up her hair with shaking hands, which gleamed white in the firelight, and carelessly twisted it about her head. “It is not nearly so pretty as Virginia's,” she said in a low voice. “Virginia's? Oh, nonsense!” he exclaimed, and walked rapidly up and down the room. Beyond the open door the rain fell heavily; he heard it beating softly on the roof and dripping down upon the smooth square stone before the threshold. A red maple leaf was washed in from the path and lay a wet bit of colour upon the floor. “I wonder where old man Levi is?” he said suddenly. “In the rain, I'm afraid,” Betty answered, “and he has rheumatism, too; he was laid up for three months last winter.” She spoke quietly, but she was conscious of a quiver from head to foot, as if a strong wind had swept over her. Through the doorway she saw the young willow tree trembling in the storm and felt curiously akin to it. Dan came slowly back to the hearth, and leaning against the crumbling mortar of the chimney, looked thoughtfully down upon her. “Do you know what I thought of when I saw you with your hair down, Betty?” She shook her head, smiling. “I don't suppose I'd thought of it for years,” he went on quickly; “but when you took your hair down, and looked up at me so small and white, it all came back to me as if it were yesterday. I remembered the night I first came along this road--God-forsaken little chap that I was--and saw you standing out there in your nightgown--with your little cold bare feet. The moonlight was full upon you, and I thought you were a ghost. At first I wanted to run away; but you spoke, and I stood still and listened. I remember what it was, Betty.--'Mr. Devil, I'm going in,' you said. Did you take me for the devil, I wonder?” She smiled up at him, and he saw her kind eyes fill with tears. The wavering smile only deepened the peculiar tenderness of her look. “I had been sitting in the briers for an hour,” he resumed, after a moment; “it was a day and night since I had eaten a bit of bread, and I had been digging up sassafras roots with my bare fingers. I remember that I rooted at one for nearly an hour, and found that it was sumach, after all. Then I got up and went on again, and there you were standing in the moonlight--” He broke off, hesitated an instant, and added with the gallant indiscretion of youth, “By George, that ought to have made a man of me!” “And you are a man,” said Betty.