I bade Mrs. Tucker good night, for Kate was already out of the door, and, before I knew what she was about, had taken a by-path in sight of the well; and there, to be sure, sat Melindy, on a prostrate flour-barrel that was rolled to the foot of the big apple-tree, twirling her fingers in pretty embarrassment, and held on her insecure perch by the stout arm of George Bemont, a handsome brown fellow, evidently very well content just now.

“Pretty,—­isn’t it?” said Kate.

“Very,—­quite pastoral,” sniffed I.

We were sitting round the open door an hour after, listening to a whippoorwill, and watching the slow moon rise over a hilly range just east of Centreville, when that elvish little “week! week!” piped out of the wood that lay behind the house.

“That is hopeful,” said Kate; “I think Melindy and George must have tracked the turkeys to their haunt, and scared them homeward.”

“George—­who?” said Peggy.

“George Bemont; it seems he is—­what is your Connecticut phrase?—­sparkin’ Melindy.”

“I’m very glad; he is a clever fellow,” said Peter.

“And she is such a very pretty girl,” continued Peggy,—­“so intelligent and graceful; don’t you think so, Sam?”

“Aw, yes, well enough for a rustic,” said I, languidly.  “I never could endure red hair, though!”

Kate stopped on the door-sill; she had risen to go up stairs.

“Gobble! gobble! gobble!” mocked she.  I had heard that once before!  Peter and Peggy roared;—­they knew it all;—­I was sold!

“Cure me of Kate Stevens?” Of course it did.  I never saw her again without wanting to fight shy, I was so sure of an allusion to turkeys.  No, I took the first down train.  There are more pretty girls in New York, twice over, than there are in Centreville, I console myself; but, by George!  Polder, Kate Stevens was charming!—­Look out there! don’t meddle with the skipper’s coils of rope! can’t you sleep on deck without a pillow?

ROBIN HOOD.

There is no one of the royal heroes of England that enjoys a more enviable reputation than the bold outlaw of Barnsdale and Sherwood.  His chance for a substantial immortality is at least as good as that of stout Lion-Heart, wild Prince Hal, or merry Charles.  His fame began with the yeomanry full five hundred years ago, was constantly increasing for two or three centuries, has extended to all classes of society, and, with some changes of aspect, is as great as ever.  Bishops, sheriffs, and game-keepers, the only enemies he ever had, have relinquished their ancient grudges, and Englishmen would be almost as loath to surrender his exploits as any part of the national glory.  His free life in the woods, his unerring eye and strong arm, his open hand and love of fair play, his never forgotten courtesy, his respect for women and devotion to Mary, form a picture eminently healthful and agreeable to the imagination, and commend him to the hearty favor of all genial minds.