Kilmeny of the Orchard

not know much of the world, but I do not think there are many people like you in it.”

One evening, when the far—away hills and fields were scarfed in gauzy purples, and the intervales were brimming with golden mists, Erie carried to the old or- chard a little limp, worn volume that held a love story. It was the first thing of the kind he had ever read to her, for in the first novel he had lent her the love interest had been very slight and subordinate. This was a beautiful, passionate idyl ex- quisitely told.

He read it to her, lying in the grass at her feet; she listened with her hands clasped over her knee and her eyes cast down. It was not a long story; and when he had finished it he shut the book and looked up at her questioningly.

“ Do you like it, Kilmeny? ” he asked.

Very slowly she took her slate and wrote,

“ Yes, I like it. But it hurt me, too.

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