"There ain't sense in nothin' else, mother," said the Captain. "Next to sparkin', which is the Christianist thing I knows on, comes gals' talks 'bout their sparks; they's as natural as crowsfoot and red columbines in the spring, and spring don't come but once a year neither,--and so let 'em take the comfort on't. I warrant now, Polly, you've laid awake nights and talked about me." "We've all been foolish once," said Mrs. Kittridge. "Well, mother, we want to be foolish too," said Sally. "Well, you and your father are too much for me," said Mrs. Kittridge, plaintively; "you always get your own way." "How lucky that my way is always a good one!" said Sally. "Well, you know, Sally, you are going to make the beer to-morrow," still objected her mother. "Oh, yes; that's another reason," said Sally. "Mara and I shall come home through the woods in the morning, and we can get whole apronfuls of young wintergreen, and besides, I know where there's a lot of sassafras root. We'll dig it, won't we, Mara?" "Yes; and I'll come down and help you brew," said Mara. "Don't you remember the beer I made when Moses came home?" "Yes, yes, I remember," said the Captain, "you sent us a couple of bottles." "We can make better yet now," said Mara. "The wintergreen is young, and the green tips on the spruce boughs are so full of strength. Everything is lively and sunny now." "Yes, yes," said the Captain, "and I 'spect I know why things do look pretty lively to some folks, don't they?" "I don't know what sort of work you'll make of the beer among you," said Mrs. Kittridge; "but you must have it your own way." Mrs. Kittridge, who never did anything else among her tea-drinking acquaintances but laud and magnify Sally's good traits and domestic acquirements, felt constantly bound to keep up a faint show of controversy and authority in her dealings with her,--the fading remains of the strict government of her childhood; but it was, nevertheless, very perfectly understood, in a general way, that Sally was to do as she pleased; and so, when the boat came to shore, she took the arm of Mara and started up toward the brown house. The air was soft and balmy, and though the moon by which the troth of Mara and Moses had been plighted had waned into the latest hours of the night, still a thousand stars were lying in twinkling brightness, reflected from the undulating waves all around them, and the tide, as it rose and fell, made a sound as gentle and soft as the respiration of a peaceful sleeper. "Well, Mara," said Sally, after an interval of silence, "all has come out right. You see that it was you whom he loved. What a lucky thing for me that I am made so heartless, or I might not be as glad as I am." "You are not heartless, Sally," said Mara; "it's the enchanted princess asleep; the right one hasn't come to waken her."