“Miss Elisabet’ does look grave at us,” said the naturalist, —­ “she is the only one wise of us all; she does nothing but read.  What are you reading, Miss Elisabet’?”

“Something you don’t know, Mr. Herder.”

“O it’s only a novel,” said her cousin; “she reads nothing but novels.”

“That’s not true, Rose Cadwallader, and you know it.”

“A novel!” said Mr. Herder.  “Ah! —­ yes —­ that is what the ladies read —­ they do not trouble themselves wiz ugly big dictionaries —­ they have easy times.”

He did not mean any reproof; but Elizabeth’s cheek coloured exceedingly and for several minutes kept its glow; and though her eyes still held to the book, her mind had lost it.

The boat coasted along the shore, down to the head of the bay, where the huckleberry region began; and then drew as close in to the bank as possible.  No more was necessary to get at the fruit, for the bushes grew down to the very water’s edge and hung over, black with berries, though us Asahel remarked, a great many of them were blue.  Everybody had baskets, and now the fun was to hold the baskets under and fill them from the overhanging bunches as fast as they could; though in the case of one or two of the party the more summary way of carrying the bushes off bodily seemed to be preferred.

“And this is huckle-berry,” said Mr. Herder, with a bush in his hand and a berry in his mouth.  “Well —­ it is sweet —­ a little; —­ it is not goot for much.”

“Why Mr. Herder!” said Rose; —­ “They make excellent pies, and Mrs. Landholm has promised to make us some, if we get enough.”

“Pies!” said the naturalist, —­ “let us get a great many huckleberry then —­ but I am very sorry I shall not be here to eat the pies wiz you.  Pull us a little, Wint’rop —­ we have picked everything.  Stop! —­ I see, —­ I will get you some pies! —­”

He jumped from the boat and away he went up the bank, through a thick growth of young wood and undergrowth of alder and dogwood and buckthorn and maple and huckleberry bushes.  He scrambled on up hill, and in a little while came down again with a load of fruity branches, which he threw into the boat.  While the others were gathering them up, he stood still near the edge of the water, looking abroad over the scene.  The whole little bay, with its high green border, the further river-channel with Diver’s Rock setting out into it, and above, below, and over against him the high broken horizon line of the mountains; the flecked grey cloud and the ripply grey water.

“This is a pretty place!” said the naturalist.  “I have seen no such pretty place in America.  I should love to live here.  I should be a happy man! —­ But one does not live for to be happy,” he said with half a sigh.

“One doesn’t live to be happy, Mr. Herder!” said Elizabeth.  “What does one live for, then?  I am sure I live to be happy.”

“And I am sure I do,” said Rose.