CHAPTER IV.
THE GOOD-BY.
Diana Pitkin was like some of the fruits of her native hills, full of juices which tend to sweetness in maturity, but which when not quite ripe have a pretty decided dash of sharpness.

There are grapes that require a frost to ripen them, and Diana was somewhat akin to these.
She was a mettlesome, warm-blooded creature, full of the energy and audacity of youth, to whom as yet life was only a frolic and a play spell.

Work never tired her.

She ate heartily, slept peacefully, went to bed laughing, and got up in a merry humor in the morning.

Diana's laugh was as early a note as the song of birds.