“John, do you know where Pulpit Rock is?” “Indeed I do. It’s two or three miles into the Wilderness.” “How near can you drive to it?” “Perhaps within a quarter of a mile. “There’s an old wood-road, which perhaps runs as near as that to Pulpit Rock. “The road is very rough, gullied out by water. There might be some danger of breaking a carriage in it.” “Never mind. I’ll run the risk. Be ready in fifteen minutes.” It was black-eyed Eva Baldwin who gave the order, and within an hour they had left the public highway, and were following the ancient and unused wood-road through the Wilderness. The wheel of the buckboard bounded high over stones that blocked the way, and then dropped as suddenly into deep holes worn by the freshets. The riders often dodged or bent low to avoid being brushed from their seats by branches of trees. It was very far from being a pleasant ride, but never a word of complaint from the lady. She was anxious to secure the earliest blossoms of the fragrant trailing arbutus, to grace the pulpit on the morrow. She might send some rare and costly flowers from the greenhouse, but every one of the Baldwin greenhouses would contribute to the decoration of the church, and she, being fond of wild flowers and of nature at first hand, wished to bring something direct from the Wilderness. Eva Baldwin was a sister of David and Zechariah Baldwin, and was worth a couple of millions easily, but she never realized how poor she was until the eloquent young clergyman, the Reverend Ralph Cutter, came to preach at the First Church. “Many a poor girl,” she said to an intimate friend, “is richer than I am, in the love of a good honest man.” If the Reverend Ralph Cutter had made any advances in her direction, he would have been met, frankly and honestly, by a good true woman. She admired the new preacher the moment she first saw him, and that admiration grew with every service of his which she attended, and with every opportunity for becoming acquainted with him. The coachman noticed the fire in the black eyes, as she alighted. “You see that path?” he asked. “It leads through a hemlock grove, over a flint ledge, and into a little valley beyond. Pulpit Rock is across the valley from the ledge. The earliest arbutus is found across the valley, on the slope below Pulpit Rock, among scattered bushes. Shall I help you?” “Oh, no; I’ll find it easily,” she replied, and taking the basket which the coachman handed her, she followed the path, humming a favorite song, and was soon out of sight in the hemlocks.