there would be no further trouble, they might rest assured.  The hotel-keeper had a “capital team,”—­his very best,—­at their instant service, if they chose to go on this morning; it could be at the door in twenty minutes.  So it was chartered, and ordered round,—­an open mountain wagon, with four horses; their remaining luggage was secured upon it, and they themselves took their seats gayly.

“Who cares for trunks or boxes now?” Leslie cried out in joyousness, catching the first, preparatory glimpse of grandeur, when their road, that wound for a time through the low, wet valley-lands, began to ascend a rugged hillside, whence opened vistas that hinted something of the glory that was to come.  All the morning long, there wheeled about them, and smiled out in the sunshine, or changed to grave, grand reticence under the cloud-shadows, those shapes of might and beauty that filled up earth and heaven.

Leslie grew silent, with the hours of over-full delight.  Thoughts thronged in upon her.  All that had been deepest and strongest in the little of life that she had lived wakened and lifted again in such transcendent presence.  Only the high places of spirit can answer to these high places of God in his creation.

Now and then, Jeannie and Elinor fell into their chatter, about their summer plans, and pleasures, and dress; about New York, and the new house Mrs. Linceford had taken in West Twenty-ninth Street, where they were to visit her next winter, and participate for the first time, under her matronizing, in city gayeties.  Leslie wondered how they could; she only answered when appealed to; she felt as if people were jogging her elbow, and whispering distractions, in the midst of some noble eloquence.

The woods had a word for her; a question, and their own sweet answer of help.  The fair June leafage was out in its young glory of vivid green; it reminded her of her talk with Cousin Delight.

“We do love leaves for their own sake; trees, and vines, and the very green grass, even.”  So she said to herself, asking still for the perfect parable that should solve and teach all.

It came, with the breath of wild grape vines, hidden somewhere in the wayside thickets.  “Under the leaf lies our tiny green blossom,” it said; “and its perfume is out on the air.  Folded in the grass-blade is a feathery bloom, of seed or grain; and by and by the fields will be all waving with it.  Be sure that the blossom is under the leaf.”

Elinor Hadden’s sweet child-face, always gentle and good-humored, though visited little yet with the deep touch of earnest thought,—­smiling upon life as life smiled upon her,—­looked lovelier to Leslie as this whisper made itself heard in her heart; and it was with a sweeter patience and a more believing kindliness that she answered, and tried to enter into, her next merry words.

There was something different about Jeannie.  She was older; there was a kind of hard determination sometimes with her, in turning from suggestions of graver things; the child-unconsciousness was no longer there; something restless, now and then defiant, had taken its place; she had caught a sound of the deeper voices, but her soul would not yet turn to listen.  She felt the blossom of life yearning under the leaf; but she bent the green beauty heedfully above it, and made believe it was not there.