Beauty, grace, and picturesqueness might be in the design, but the indefinable and subtle poetry—­the atmosphere of youth, and joy, and innocence, which seemed to wrap them round, and go with them wherever they moved—­could not be reproduced.

Yet in the mere material outline there was much to attract.

Redbud, with her simple little costume, full of grace and elegance—­her slender figure, golden hair, and perfect grace of movement, was a pure embodiment of beauty—­that all-powerful beauty, which exists alone in woman when she passes from the fairy land of childhood, or toward the real world, pausing with reluctant feet upon the line which separates them.

Her golden hair was secured by a bow of scarlet ribbon, her dress was azure, the little chip hat, with its floating streamer, just fell over her fine brow, and gave a shadowy softness to her tender smile:  she looked like some young shepherdness of Arcady, from out the old romances, fresh, and beautiful, and happy.  Poor, cold words!  If even our friend the Signor, before mentioned, could not do her justice, how can we, with nothing but our pen!

This little pastoral queen leant on the arm of the young Leatherstocking whom we have described so often.  Verty’s costume, by dint of these outlined descriptions, must be familiar to the reader.  He had secured his rifle, which he carried beneath his arm, and his eye dwelt on the autumn forest, with the old dreamy look which we have spoken of.  As he thus went on, clad in his wild forest costume, placing his moccasined feet with caution upon the sod, and bending his head forward, as is the wont of hunters, Verty resembled nothing so much as some wild tenant of the American backwoods, taken back to Arcady, and in love with some fair Daphne, who had wiled him from the deer.

All the old doubt and embarrassment had now disappeared from Redbud’s face; and Verty, too, was happy.

They went on talking very quietly and pleasantly—­the fresh little face of Redbud lit up by her tender smile.

“What are you gazing at?” said the young girl, smiling, as Verty’s eye fixed itself upon the blue sky intently; “I don’t see anything—­do you?”

“Yes,” said Verty, smiling too.

“What?”

“A pigeon.”

“Where?”

“Up yonder!—­and I declare!  It is yours, Redbud.”

“Mine?”

“Yes—­see! he is sweeping nearer—­pretty pigeon!”

“Oh—­now I see him—­but it is a mere speck; what clear sight you have!”

Verty smiled.

“The fact is, I was brought up in the woods,” he said.

“I know; but can you recognize—?”

“Your pigeon, Reddie? oh, yes!  It is the one I shot that day, and followed.”

“Yes—­”

“And found you by—­I’m very much obliged to him,” said Verty, smiling; “there he goes, sweeping back to the Bower of Nature.”

“How prettily he flies,” Redbud said, looking at the bird,—­“and now he is gone.”