About half-past eight on the morning of the day set for the postponed picnic, Henry knocked at Widow Brand's door.

He had by no means forgotten Madeline's consent to allow him to carry her basket, although two weeks had intervened.
She came to the door herself.

He had never seen her in anything that set off her dark eyes and olive complexion more richly than the simple picnic dress of white, trimmed with a little crimson braid about the neck and sleeves, which she wore to-day.

It was gathered up at the bottom for wandering in the woods, just enough to show the little boots.

She looked surprised at seeing him, and exclaimed-- "You haven't come to tell me that the picnic is put off again, or Laura's sick ?" "The picnic is all right, and Laura too.