By the Riverside

"Yea, I am glad--I and my father and mother and Ephraim--that thee is
returned to Fair View," answered Truelove. "And has thee truly no shoes of
plain and sober stuffs? These be much too gaudy."

"There's a pair of black callimanco," said the storekeeper reluctantly;
"but these of flowered silk would so become your feet, or this red-heeled
pair with the buckles, or this of fine morocco. Did you think of me every
day that I spent in Williamsburgh?"

"I prayed for thee every day," said Truelove simply,--"for thee and for
the sick man who had called thee to his side. Let me see thy callimanco
shoes. Thee knows that I may not wear these others."

The storekeeper brought the plainest footgear that his stock afforded.
"They are of a very small size,--perhaps too small. Had you not better try
them ere you buy? I could get a larger pair from Mr. Carter's store."

Truelove seated herself upon a convenient stool, and lifted her gray skirt
an inch above a slender ankle. "Perchance they may not be too small," she
said, and in despite of her training and the whiteness of her soul two
dimples made their appearance above the corners of her pretty mouth.
MacLean knelt to remove the worn shoe, but found in the shoestrings an
obstinate knot. The two had the store to themselves; for Ephraim waited
for his sister at the landing, rocking in his boat on the bosom of the
river, watching a flight of wild geese drawn like a snowy streamer across
the dark blue sky. It was late autumn, and the forest was dressed in flame
color.