Prissy came close over to Leslie with her book in her hand.  “Wait a minute,” she said, with the effort in her tone peculiar to the deaf.  “I’ve got something to send back.”

“If it’s convenient, you mean,” put in Aunt Hoskins sharply.  “She’s as blunt as a broomstick, that child is.”

But Prissy had sprung away in her squirrel-like fashion, and now came back, bringing with her something really to make one’s eyes water, if one happened, at least, to be ever so little of a geologist,—­a mass of quartz rock as large as she could grasp with her two hands, shot through at three different angles with three long, superb, columnar crystals of clear, pale-green beryl.  If Professor Dana had known this exact locality, and a more definite name for the “Cliff,” wouldn’t he have had it down in his Supplement with half a dozen exclamation points after the “beryl”!

“I found it a-purpose!” said Prissy, with the utmost simplicity, putting the heavy specimen out of her own hands into Leslie’s.  “She’s been a-wantin’ it this great while, and we’ve looked for it everywheres!”

“A-purpose” it did seem as if the magnificent fragment had been laid in the way of the child’s zealous and grateful search.  “There were only the rocks,” as Aunt Hoskins said; in no other way could she so joyously have acknowledged the kindness that had brightened now three summers of her life.

“It’ll bother you, I’m afeard,” said the woman.

“No, indeed!  I shall like to take it for you,” continued Leslie, with a warm earnestness, stooping down to the little girl, and speaking in her clear, glad tone close to her cheek.  “I only wish I could find something to take her myself.”  And with that, close to the little red-brown cheek as she was, she put the period of a quick kiss to her words.

“Come again, and we’ll hunt for some together,” said the child, with instant response of cordiality.

“I will come—­if I possibly can,” was Leslie’s last word, and then she and Dakie Thayne hurried back to the wagon.

The Haddens had just got in again upon their side.  They were full of exclamations about the wonderful view up and down the long valley-reaches.

“You needn’t tell me!” cried Elinor, in high enthusiasm.  “I don’t care a bit for the geography of it.  That great aisle goes straight from Lake Umbagog to the Sound!”

“It is a glorious picture,” said Mrs. Linceford.  “But I’ve had a little one, that you’ve lost.  You’ve no idea, Leslie, what a lovely tableau you have been making,—­you and Dakie, with that old woman and the blowzy child!”

Leslie blushed.

“You’ll never look prettier, if you try ever so hard.”

“Don’t, Mrs. Linceford!”

“Why not?” said Jeannie.  “It’s only a pity, I think, that you couldn’t have known it at the time.  They say we don’t know when we’re happiest; and we can’t know when we’re prettiest; so where’s the satisfaction?”