Such thoughts, however transient, in a woman of twenty-eight, are different from the same thoughts when they come to her at eighteen.

If she be good, they are deeper, as the river is deeper than the rivulet; better, as the poem of the poet is better than the songs of his youth.

Then for some reason--the mischief of idleness, perhaps--Sophia thought of Trenholme's young brother--how he had looked when he spoke to her over the fence.

She rose to move away from such silly thoughts.
Dottie possessed herself of two fingers and pulled hard toward the river.

Dearly did she love the river-side, and mamma, who was very cruel, would not allow her to go there without a grown-up companion.
When she and her big sister reached the river they differed as to the next step, Dottie desiring to go on into the water, and Sophia deeming it expedient to go back over the field.