"I did not mean to hurt your feelings, just now, Verty," she says, "pardon me if I made you feel badly. I was somewhat nettled, I believe." And having achieved this speech, Miss Lavinia stiffens again into imposing dignity, sails away into the house, and disappears, leaving Verty overwhelmed with surprise. He feels a hand laid upon his arm;--a blushing face looks frankly and kindly into his own. "Don't let us talk any more in that way, Verty, please," says the young girl, with the most beautiful frankness and ingenuousness; "we are friends and playmates, you know; and we ought not to act toward each other as if we were grown gentleman and lady. Please do not; it will make us feel badly, I am sure. I am only Redbud, you know, and you are Verty, my friend and playmate. Shall I sing you one of our old songs?" The soft, pure voice sounded in his ears like some fine melody of olden poets--her frank, kind eyes, as she looked at him, soothed and quieted him. Again, she was the little laughing star of his childhood, as when they wandered about over the fields--little children--that period so recent, yet which seemed so far away, because the opening heart lives long in a brief space of time. Again, she was to him little Redbud, he to her was the boy-playmate Verty. She had done all by a word--a look; a kind, frank smile, a single glance of confiding eyes. He loved her more than ever--yes, a thousand times more strongly, and was calm. He followed her to the harpsichord, and watched her in every movement, with quiet happiness; he seemed to be under the influence of a charm. "I think I will try and sing the 'Rose of Glengary,'" she said, smiling; "you know, Verty, it is one of the old songs you loved so much, and it will make us think of old times--in childhood, you know; though that is not such old, _old_ time--at least for me," added Redbud, with a smile, more soft and confiding than before. "Shall I sing it? Well, give me the book--the brown-backed one." The old volume--such as we find to-day in ancient country-houses--was opened, and Redbud commenced singing. The girl sang the sweet ditty with much expression; and her kind, touching voice filled the old homestead with a tender melody, such as the autumn time would utter, could its spirit become vocal. The clear, tender carol made the place fairy-land for Verty long years afterwards, and always he seemed to hear her singing when he visited the room. Redbud sang afterwards more than one of those old ditties--"Jock o' Hazeldean," and "Flowers of the Forest," and many others--ditties which, for us to-day, seem like so many utterances of the fine old days in the far past. For, who does not hear them floating above those sweet fields of the olden time--those bright Hesperian gardens, where, for us at least, the fruits are all golden, and the airs all happy?