Unconsciously the girl grew to feel not only the beauty but the value of these quiet hours, to find a new peace, refreshment, and happiness, bubbling up in her heart as naturally as the brook gushed out among the mossy rocks, and went singing away through hayfields and gardens, and by dusty roads, till it met the river and rolled on to the sea.  Something dimly stirred in her, and the healing spirit that haunts such spots did its sweet ministering till the innocent soul began to see that life was not perfect without labor as well as love, duty as well as happiness, and that true contentment came from within, not from without.

On the evening we speak of, she went to wait for Becky, who would join her as soon as the after-supper chores were done.  In the little cave which held a few books, a dipper, and a birch-bark basket for berries, Emily kept a sketching block and a box of pencils, and often amused herself by trying to catch some of the lovely scenes before her.  These efforts usually ended in a humbler attempt, and a good study of an oak-tree, a bit of rock, or a clump of ferns was the result.  This evening the sunset was so beautiful she could not draw, and remembering that somewhere in Becky’s scrap-book there was a fine description of such an hour by some poet, she pulled out the shabby old volume, and began to turn over the leaves.

She had never cared to look at it but once, having read all the best of its contents in more attractive volumes, so Becky kept it tucked away in the farther corner of her rustic closet, and evidently thought it a safe place to conceal a certain little secret which Emily now discovered.  As she turned the stiff pages filled with all sorts of verses, good, bad, and indifferent, a sheet of paper appeared on which was scribbled these lines in school-girl handwriting:—­

MOUNTAIN—­LAUREL

  My bonnie flower, with truest joy
    Thy welcome face I see,
  The world grows brighter to my eyes,
    And summer comes with thee. 
  My solitude now finds a friend,
    And after each hard day,
  I in my mountain garden walk,
    To rest, or sing, or pray.

  All down the rocky slope is spread
    Thy veil of rosy snow,
  And in the valley by the brook,
    Thy deeper blossoms grow. 
  The barren wilderness grows fair,
    Such beauty dost thou give;
  And human eyes and Nature’s heart
    Rejoice that thou dost live.

  Each year I wait thy coming, dear,
    Each year I love thee more,
  For life grows hard, and much I need
    Thy honey for my store. 
  So, like a hungry bee, I sip
    Sweet lessons from thy cup,
  And sitting at a flower’s feet,
    My soul learns to look up.

  No laurels shall I ever win,
     No splendid blossoms bear,
  But gratefully receive and use
   God’s blessed sun and air;
  And, blooming where my lot is cast,
   Grow happy and content,
  Making some barren spot more fair,
   For a humble life well spent.