Fanny had blushed at this, and declared it false;--with what truth, we have never been able to discover. The question is scarcely important. CHAPTER XXXIX. UP THE HILL-SIDE AND UNDER THE CHESTNUTS. Thus leaving the sedgy stream behind, with all its brilliant ripples, silver sands, and swaying waterflags, which made their merry music for it, as it went along toward the far Potomac,--our joyful party ascended the fine hill which rose beyond, mounting with every step, above the little town of Winchester, which before long looked more like a lark's nest hidden in a field of wheat, than what it was--an honest border town, with many memories. Verty and Redbud, as we have said, went first. We have few artists in Virginia--only one great humorist with the pencil. This true history has not yet been submitted to him. Yet we doubt whether ever the fine pencil of Monsignor Andante Strozzi could transfer to canvas, or the engraver's block, the figures of the maiden and the young man. Beauty, grace, and picturesqueness might be in the design, but the indefinable and subtle poetry--the atmosphere of youth, and joy, and innocence, which seemed to wrap them round, and go with them wherever they moved--could not be reproduced. Yet in the mere material outline there was much to attract. Redbud, with her simple little costume, full of grace and elegance--her slender figure, golden hair, and perfect grace of movement, was a pure embodiment of beauty--that all-powerful beauty, which exists alone in woman when she passes from the fairy land of childhood, or toward the real world, pausing with reluctant feet upon the line which separates them. Her golden hair was secured by a bow of scarlet ribbon, her dress was azure, the little chip hat, with its floating streamer, just fell over her fine brow, and gave a shadowy softness to her tender smile: she looked like some young shepherdness of Arcady, from out the old romances, fresh, and beautiful, and happy. Poor, cold words! If even our friend the Signor, before mentioned, could not do her justice, how can we, with nothing but our pen! This little pastoral queen leant on the arm of the young Leatherstocking whom we have described so often. Verty's costume, by dint of these outlined descriptions, must be familiar to the reader. He had secured his rifle, which he carried beneath his arm, and his eye dwelt on the autumn forest, with the old dreamy look which we have spoken of. As he thus went on, clad in his wild forest costume, placing his moccasined feet with caution upon the sod, and bending his head forward, as is the wont of hunters, Verty resembled nothing so much as some wild tenant of the American backwoods, taken back to Arcady, and in love with some fair Daphne, who had wiled him from the deer. All the old doubt and embarrassment had now disappeared from Redbud's face; and Verty, too, was happy.