“Heigh ho!” said Mr. Winters one bright day, “whom have we here?” A merry jingle of bells suddenly stopped and two gray horses and a handsome sleigh stood in front of the gate.  “Mr. Monteith, eh?  He has most likely come to take me out riding,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye.

“Miss Edna, will you ride?” Mr. Monteith asked when the greetings were over.  Edna’s eyes sought her mother’s for reply.  It was not every gentleman, be he ever so great and rich, that this primitive, independent father and mother would entrust with their treasure, their one ewe lamb.

“Yes.  Edna might go, but he would be sure to bring her home before dark?”

“Trust me; did I not bring her home before dark once?” he laughingly asked.  The two were soon tucked among the robes, skimming briskly over the smooth, hard surface, which is just the next thing to flying.  They flew about the streets of the town a little while; met Miss Paulina, who stared at Edna and said to a young lady by her side:  “Whoever can that be with Mr. Monteith?” Then their route stretched many miles out into the quiet country.  The journey was long, but not tedious.  It was beguiled by low-spoken words that kept time to the slow, silvery chime of the bells—­the old musical, mysterious words that established a covenant between those two, needing only the word from father and mother and minister to make binding and never-ending.

Mr. Monteith was said, by belles of the town, to be destitute of a heart—­at least all their arts had not succeeded in finding it; even Miss Percival, skilful as she was, had also failed, much to her sorrow.  To be sure, the heart was of small account to her, only so that she might be mistress of the stately Monteith mansion, might possess those gray ponies for her very own, and glitter in the silks and jewels and laces that his money would buy.  She had no heart herself, because in her very shallow nature there was not room for one.  Paulina had failed thus far, but she was not discouraged.  Mr. Monteith’s mother was old and feeble; she would die some day, then “we shall see what we shall see”—­then, of course, he would need someone to preside over his home; and who so well fitted to adorn it as she, the acknowledged beauty of the town?

When the time of birds and blossoms had come again, and picnics and excursions were revived, Paulina said to her dearest friend: 

“What do you think that delightful man has gotten up now?  Mr. Monteith, I mean.  He is to have a little breakfast party in the country—­just a few of us, you know.  We are to go in carriages.  I dare say you’ll be invited, too.  Isn’t it a charming novelty?  I presume it is to an old uncle and aunt of his, you know,” and the butterfly girl tripped on without waiting for replies.  Accordingly, one balmy June morning, a merry company alighted at “The Pines,” and were ushered into a fairy-like room.