Her truant fancy wanders.

The forms that flit her vision through

Are like the shapes of old,

Where tales of prince and paladin

On tapestry are told.

Man may not hope her heart to win,

Be his of common mould.”—C. F. Hoffman.

In the meantime, the two young riders took their way up a narrow bridle-path, leading up a long crooked pass of the mountain.

The morning was glistening with brightness and freshness, and the mingled joyous sounds of rural life made music in the air. They rode along awhile in silence, strange enough in a pair so youthful. At length the young man broke the spell.

“Rose!”