Her effects were always produced with simple things, in simple ways; but they resulted in an impression of abundance and luxury.

As Parson Dorrance glanced around at all the wild-wood beauty, and the wild-wood fragrance stole upon his senses, a great mastering wave of love for the woman whose hand had planned it all swept over him.

He recalled Mercy's face the day before, when she had said,-- "You are the youngest person I know;" and, as she crossed the threshold of the door at that instant, he went swiftly towards her with outstretched hands, and a look on his face which, if she had seen, she could not have failed to interpret aright.
But she was used to the outstretched hands; she always put both her own in them, as simply as a child; and she was bringing to her teacher now a little poem, of which her thoughts were full.

She did not look fully in his face, therefore; for it was still a hard thing for her to show him her verses.
Holding out the paper, she said shyly,-- "It had to get itself said or sung, you know,--that thought that haunted me so yesterday at 'The Cedars.' I daresay it is very bad poetry, though." Parson Dorrance unfolded the paper, and read the following poem:-- WHERE?
My snowy eupatorium has dropped Its silver threads of petals in the night; No sound told me its blossoming had stopped; Its seed-films flutter, silent, ghostly white: No answer stirs the shining air, As I ask, "Where ?" Beneath the glossy leaves of wintergreen Dead lily-bells lie low, and in their place A rounded disk of pearly pink is seen, Which tells not of the lily's fragrant grace: No answer stirs the shining air, As I ask "Where ?" This morning's sunrise does not show to me Seed-film or fruit of my sweet yesterday; Like falling flowers, to realms I cannot see Its moments floated silently away: No answer stirs the shining air, As I ask, "Where ?" As he read the last verse, his face altered.

Mercy was watching him.
"I thought you wouldn't like the last verse," she said eagerly.