“At least it doesn't give one gout,” retorted Betty, mercilessly, adding as she went to the door: “but the rain is holding up, and I must be going. I'll borrow your horse, if you please, Dan.” She tied on her flattened bonnet, and with her foot on the threshold, stood looking across the wet fields, where each spear of grass pieced a string of shining rain drops. Over the mountains the clouds tossed in broken masses, and loose streamers of vapour drifted down into the lower foldings of the hills. The cool smell of the moist road came to her on the wind. Dan unfastened the reins from the young willow, and led the horse to the stone at the entrance. Then he threw his coat over the dampened saddle and lifted Betty upon it. “Pooh! I'm as tough as a pine knot.” He scoffed at her protests. “There, sit steady; I'd better hold you on, I suppose.” Slipping the reins loosely over his arm, he laid his hand upon the blue folds of her skirt. “If you feel yourself going, just catch my shoulder,” he added; “and now we're off.” They left the little path and went slowly down the turnpike, under the dripping trees. Across the fields a bird was singing after the storm, and the notes were as fresh as the smell of the rain-washed earth. A fuller splendour seemed to have deepened suddenly upon the meadows, and the golden-rod ran in streams of fire across the landscape. “Everything looks so changed,” said Betty, wistfully; “are you sure that we are still in the same world, Dan?” “Sure?” he looked up at her gayly. “I'm sure of but one thing in this life, Betty, and that is that you should thank your stars you met me.” “I don't doubt that I should have gotten home somehow,” responded Betty, ungratefully, “so don't flatter yourself that you have saved even my bonnet.” From its blue-lined shadow she smiled brightly down upon him. “Well, all the same, I dare to be grateful,” he rejoined. “Even if you haven't saved my hat,--and I can't honestly convince myself that you have,--I thank my stars I met you, Betty.” He threw back his head and sang softly to himself as they went on under the scudding clouds. VII IF THIS BE LOVE An hour later, Cephas, son of Cupid, gathering his basketful of chips at the woodpile, beheld his young master approaching by the branch road, and started shrieking for the house. “Hi! hit's Marse Dan! hit's Marse Dan!” he yelled to his father Cupid in the pantry; “I seed 'im fu'st! Fo' de Lawd, I seed 'im fu'st!” and the Major, hearing the words, appeared instantly at the door of his library. “It's the boy,” he called excitedly. “Bless my soul, Molly, the boy has come!” The old lady came hurriedly downstairs, pinning on her muslin cap, and by the time Dan had dismounted at the steps the whole household was assembled to receive him. “Well, well, my boy,” exclaimed the Major, moving nervously about, “this is a surprise, indeed. We didn't look for you until next week. Well, well.”