“It seems likely,” said Wycliff, “that we shall go west to look after our mining property, leaving everything here in your care. I hope we may be able to return occasionally. If we ever build on Twin Mountain, I think one peak will be ample for our use, will it not?” he asked, addressing his wife. “I hope we may be able to spend some time here each summer,” Mrs. Wycliff replied. “If we ever do build on Twin Mountain it will be very pleasant to have you there for neighbors.” When they had gone Uncle Jerry Barnaby came to give an account of his stewardship of Twin Mountain Farm. He seemed to be hardly the same person as the woe-begone, long-faced man they had once known. “How is your daughter?” asked Mrs. Wycliff. “You never saw such a change in anyone,” said Uncle Jerry. “Pet is hardly the same woman that she was when she left Papyrus.” “What has done it? Our mountain air?” “I don’t wish to run down our mountain air; the fact is, I’ve seen the time when you couldn’t run it down with an express train. But givin’ the mountain air all the credit that belongs to it, still it’s those letters from Oregon that have saved Pet. It’s the old, old story,--‘’Tis love that makes the world go ’round.’ “When that first letter came to Pet, from ’way up in the great Northwest, it made a little spot of color on Pet’s cheeks just about as big as the first bit of color that shows in a rosebud, and that spot, or that pair of spots, have been growin’ bigger ever since till now the roses are pretty much full-blown.” “When is he coming?” “In a fortnight.” “And then?” “They will be married, and go to his home in the Oregon woods. Pet always did like the woods, and she’ll have woods a plenty there. He has hundreds of acres of forest.” “Pop,” said Robbie later, as he climbed on to his father’s knees, by the window, “see that pretty pony and little cart coming down the street. Say, Pop, when I was so sick did you promise me a pony and a cart, or did I dream it?” “I promised,” replied the father, but now the pony and cart were at the door. Still later a very tired boy was resting comfortably in his kind father’s arms. “Pop,” he said, “are we really and truly rich?” “It looks like that,” replied the father, “but I was rich before.” “How is that?” asked the boy. “Please bring me that old scrap-book, Robbie.” The boy brought it, and the father read aloud these lines:-- “_I have thought myself poor since God withheld From me His lands and gold, Forgetting that some of his gifts excelled Mere wealth a thousand fold._ “_For what is the wealth of the teeming fields Beside thy love, wife mine? And measured by joy a child’s love yields What worth is a golden mine?_” THE END. TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.