“After all,” he said thoughtfully, “we needn't go abroad for beauty, when we can find so much of it at our own doors. Yet, perhaps the more we see of the beautiful, the better we are fitted to appreciate it in the wonderful variety of its numberless forms.”
He slowly descended the hill, but in a different direction. This brought him to the road that connected the village with North Rossville, two miles distant.
Coming from a different direction, a boy reached the stile about the same time with himself, and both clambered over together.
“It is a beautiful morning,” said the young man courteously.
“Yes, sir,” was the respectful answer. “Have you been up looking at the view?”
“Yes—and to get an appetite for breakfast. And you?”
Frank Frost—for it was he—laughed. “Oh, I am here on quite a different errand,” he said. “I used to come here earlier in the season to drive the cows to pasture. I come this morning to carry some milk to a neighbor who takes it of us. She usually sends for it, but her son is just now sick with the measles.”
“Yet I think you cannot fail to enjoy the pleasant morning, even if you are here for other purposes.”
“I do enjoy it very much,” said Frank. “When I read of beautiful scenery in other countries, I always wish that I could visit them, and see for myself.”
“Perhaps you will some day.”