Stephen was greatly touched.

“Thank you, sir,” he said.  “I should like to very much.  But I can’t.”

“Nonsense,” said the Colonel.  “I won’t let the Judge interfere.”

“It isn’t that, sir.  I shall have to go by the two o’clock train, I fear.”

The Colonel turned to Virginia, who, meanwhile, had sat silently by.

“Jinny,” he said, “we must contrive to keep him.”

She slid off the railing.

“I’m afraid he is determined, Pa,” she answered.  “But perhaps Mr. Brice would like to see a little of the place before he goes.  It is very primitive,” she explained, “not much like yours in the East.”

Stephen thanked her, and bowed to the Colonel.  And so she led him past the low, crooked outbuildings at the back, where he saw old Uncle Ben busy over the preparation of his dinner, and frisky Rosetta, his daughter, playing with one of the Colonel’s setters.  Then Virginia took a well-worn path, on each side of which the high grass bent with its load of seed, which entered the wood.  Oaks and hickories and walnuts and persimmons spread out in a glade, and the wild grape twisted fantastically around the trunks.  All this beauty seemed but a fit setting to the strong girlish figure in the pink frock before him.  So absorbed was he in contemplation of this, and in wondering whether indeed she were to marry her cousin, Clarence Colfax, that he did not see the wonders of view unrolling in front of him.  She stopped at length beside a great patch of wild race bushes.  They were on the edge of the bluff, and in front of them a little rustic summer-house, with seats on its five sides.  Here Virginia sat down.  But Stephen, going to the edge, stood and marvelled.  Far, far below him, down the wooded steep, shot the crystal Meramec, chafing over the shallow gravel beds and tearing headlong at the deep passes.

Beyond, the dimpled green hills rose and fell, and the stream ran indigo and silver.  A hawk soared over the, water, the only living creature in all that wilderness.

The glory of the place stirred his blood.  And when at length he turned, he saw that the girl was watching him.

“It is very beautiful,” he said.

Virginia had taken other young men here, and they had looked only upon her.  And yet she was not offended.  This sincerity now was as new to her as that with which he had surprised her in the Judge’s room.

And she was not quite at her ease.  A reply to those simple words of his was impossible.  At honest Tom Catherwood in the same situation she would have laughed, Clarence never so much as glanced at scenery.  Her replies to him were either flippant, or else maternal, as to a child.

A breeze laden with the sweet abundance of that valley stirred her hair.  And with that womanly gesture which has been the same through the ages she put up her hand; deftly tucking in the stray wisp behind.