with a sigh: "You are right; the letter shall be written to-night."
The writing of the letter was the one painful hour of all that bright, brief courtship. Margaret indited it alone in her room late that night, not without a good deal of feeling; but the tears were dried and forgotten an hour after, as she fell into a happy dream, soon to be made a reality. The letter was written and despatched, and in due time reached its destination at Thebes. A week passed, and Margaret received no answer,—at which she wondered a little, and then ceased to think about it in the thousand and one busy, happy thoughts that invaded her mind.
The time of the Harvest Home was come, and the whole community in and about Woodbridge was busy in making ready for that joyous festival. The old stone church, where this service had been held for more than a hundred seasons, assumed the appearance of a temple of Ceres. Sheaves of yellow grain stood in the four corners of the sanctuary, and at the chancel-rail lay heaps of rich-toned vegetables, pumpkins shining like new burnished gold, melons of every shape, and great bunches of purple grapes and masses of chrysanthemums flaunting their fringed banners and filling the air with their clean pungent perfume. A vine, heavy with clusters of white grapes, which seemed ready to burst with the
