My innocent little country-girl turned her sweet face up to mine with a doubtful expression, a comically wise look, and said, a little anxiously,—­

“Do you think it will pay?”

Oh, she’s a capital wife!  She has beauty and sweetness and exquisite taste and simplicity and loving-kindness, with just enough worldliness to take all these charming qualities safely along through life.

Hear how wisely she discusses the “coquette” question.

Says she,—­“I think it’s natural for all women to want to please all men.  I believe that the very best and wisest woman in the world is affected by flattery from a handsome man who knows how to flatter.  Very likely this might be put the other way about, but then in books that side is usually left out.  But what you, Mr. Landscape-painter, would like to know is, whether I coquetted with the Doctor’s boy.  And I will own that I tried to please him.  I liked to have him think I was pretty.  I can’t think what it was about him that had such power over me.  I tremble now to think what might have been, if—­And just think what a whole life would be with such a person!  I don’t believe, though, any girl could have withstood him, unless her heart—­I believe I should certainly have loved him, if”—­

“If what, and unless what?” I asked, drawing her close up to me, as if that dangerous youth had still power to take her from me.

She looked up so roguishly,—­

“You ought to know; you took the chapter to study.”

Oh, my innocent little country-girl!  If I were a poet, I’d write a song in your praise; and if I were a musician, I’d set it to music.  But the poetry is in my heart; and ’tis set to music there.

* * * * *

SWEET-BRIER.

  Tender of words should singer be,
  Sweet-Brier, who would tell of thee;
  One who has drunk with eager lip
  And treasured thy companionship;

  One who has sought thee far and wide,
  In early dew, with morning pride;
  To whom thou art no new-made friend,
  Whose memories on thy breath attend.

  For such thou art a lemon-grove,
  Where wandering orient odors rove,—­
  Yet loyal ever to thy home,
  The valley where the north winds roam.

  Sometimes I would call thee mine;
  But sweeter far than mine or thine
  To listen unto Nature’s song,
  Saying, To lovers all belong.

  I love thee for my greenest days
  Rescued from Time at thy sweet gaze,
  For pictures brilliant as the Spring
  Brought back upon thy breathing wing.

  I love thee for thy influence,
  Heart-honey, without impotence;
  He who would reach thy virgin blush,
  Like warrior bold, must dangers crush.

  Chiefly I love thee for thyself,
  Wealth-giver, ignorant of pelf;
  Fain would I learn thy upright ways
  And heart thus redolent of praise.