Alice Wilde: The Raftsman's Daughter. A Forest Romance

								

"And who's 'herself?'" queried the other, laughing.
"My cub, sir. Won't yer take yer flute out of yer pocket and give her a
tune, before she sees us? It'll set her to wonderin' what 'n earth it
is."
The young man put the pieces of his flute together, and joined in the
strain, rising loud and exultant upon the breeze; the voice ceased; he
stopped playing; the voice began, and again he accompanied it; it sang
more exuberently than ever, and the flute blent in with it accordantly.
It was not until they were nearly upon her fairy bark that they came
in sight of the singer, her bright hair flying, her cheeks redder than
roses with the double exercise of rowing and singing. Philip Moore
thought he had never beheld so lovely an apparition.
"Oh, father, I'm so glad you're home again. Did you hear that beautiful
echo?" she asked, her eyes all aglow with surprise and pleasure. "I
never heard any thing like it before. It must be the rocks."
"'Twant the rocks--'twas this here gentleman," said David Wilde,
smiling. "Mr. Moore, this is my daughter Alice."
Unknown to himself, his tone and look were full of pride as he
presented her to his companion, who never paid a more sincere tribute
of admiration to any woman, however accomplished, than he did to the
artless child who returned his deep bow with so divine a blush.
"I thought I'd come to meet you, and run a race home with you," she
said to her father, with a fond look.
"That's just like my little cub--allers on hand. Wall, go ahead! the
breeze is fair, and I guess we'll beat ye. Hope ye'll make good time,
fur I'm beginning to get rather growly in the region of the stomach."
"Pallas expects you," returned Alice, laughing.
"If your skiff were large enough for two, I'd take those oars off your
hands," said the young gentleman.
"Nobody ever touches this, but myself," and away sped the fairy affair
with its mistress, darting ahead like an arrow, but presently dropping
behind as they tacked, and then shooting past them again, the young
girl stealing shy glances, as she passed, at the stranger who was
watching her with mingled curiosity and admiration. So sweetly bashful,
yet so arch and piquant--so rustic, yet so naturally graceful--so
young, he could not tell whether she esteemed herself a child or a
woman--certainly she was very different from the dozen of tow-headed
children he had taken it for granted must run wild about the 'cabin' to
which he was now about to make a visit.
"How many children have you, Mr. Wilde?"
"She's all. That's my mill you see just up the mouth of the creek thar.
We're nigh on to my cabin now; when we've rounded that pint we shall
heave in sight. Seems to me I smell supper. A cold snack is very good
for a day or two, but give me suthin' of Pallas' getting up after it.
Thar's the cabin!"
Philip had been following with his eyes the pretty sailor, who had
already moored her craft to the foot of a huge elm, overhanging the