Again, she was to him little Redbud, he to her was the boy-playmate Verty.

She had done all by a word--a look; a kind, frank smile, a single glance of confiding eyes.

He loved her more than ever--yes, a thousand times more strongly, and was calm.
He followed her to the harpsichord, and watched her in every movement, with quiet happiness; he seemed to be under the influence of a charm.
"I think I will try and sing the 'Rose of Glengary,'" she said, smiling; "you know, Verty, it is one of the old songs you loved so much, and it will make us think of old times--in childhood, you know; though that is not such old, _old_ time--at least for me," added Redbud, with a smile, more soft and confiding than before.

"Shall I sing it?
Well, give me the book--the brown-backed one." The old volume--such as we find to-day in ancient country-houses--was opened, and Redbud commenced singing.

The girl sang the sweet ditty with much expression; and her kind, touching voice filled the old homestead with a tender melody, such as the autumn time would utter, could its spirit become vocal.