"Well, dear me! the children will grow to be men and women, it seems; but a little while ago since you and Roland were skipping about here as happy children; now, you are a young lady, and Roland such a fine-looking young man! The last time he was down, he came to visit me in the old cabin--says he, 'Peter, you don't care for that little shoe that is up in the shelf?'" "No," says I, "it is no use to me, but I kept it a good while because the little girl dropped it here, and she was a bright child, and very good to Uncle Peter." "Did you give it to him?" inquired Madeline. "Yes, I did, and he placed it in his pocket, and took it away--a queer fancy for a young man to be hoarding up old shoes." "Did he ask for one of yours, Uncle Peter?" inquired Madeline, with her old smile of mischief. "Bless your heart! my young lady, he did not want my old shoes; for he only wanted that one, because it belonged to the little foot that used to run about here on the old beach." This was pleasant talk, and she wondered if Roland really did think as much of the little shoe as she did of the faded sea-weed that lay hidden in the desk. "I suppose that he did _then_," thought she; "but that perhaps was before he knew Helen Thornly." "Are you comfortable, Uncle Peter?" asked the young girl, before she left the cabin. "Well, you see, Miss, I should like to have some tobacco; mine is about gone, and it is hard enough to get it sometimes." "You shall have some, Uncle Peter;" and the next day Madeline sent to the nearest store for a good supply for the old man. "God bless her bright young face! she always had a warm heart, but a quick, high temper. I wonder how it is now; she'll come all right by-and-bye." Madeline wondered for several days what Roland had done with the little shoe; but she guessed at last that it thrown away before this. CHAPTER XVIII. THE EARLY DAWN. "I shall not leave you long, dear papa," was Madeline's farewell; and Aunt Clara was but too happy to see her dear niece once more. "I have heard glowing accounts of your winter in New York, Madeline; I really was afraid that you would be wholly intoxicated by its temptations." "I was for awhile, dear aunt, but I discovered that all was mere mirage; there was an inner life that was wholly starved in that heartless round of folly." "How did you spend your time, Madeline?" "In dressing, shopping, singing, waltzing, going to the opera, making and receiving calls, in hearing frothy talk, and scandalous remarks, in listening to the flattery of a score of empty-headed fops, coming home tired at night, sleeping late next morning, and longing for one sight of nature, one true friend, one satisfying portion. Aunt Clara, I learned to loathe the empty life, and I have come to you longing for something better." Folding her niece in her arms, she imprinted a warm kiss on the fair young forehead, and said,