CHAPTER XII.
The thing we long for, that we are, For one transcendent moment, Before the Present, poor and bare, Can make its sneering comment.
Still through our paltry stir and strife Glows down the wished Ideal, And Longing moulds in clay what Life Carves in the marble Real.
LOWELL.
Mr.Haye came the latter part of September to fetch his daughter and his charge home; and spent a day or two in going over the farm and making himself acquainted with the river.

He was a handsome man, and very comfortable in face and figure.
The wave of prosperity had risen up to his very lips, and its ripples were forever breaking there in a succession of easy smiles.

He made himself readily at home in the family; with a well-mannered sort of good-humour, which seemed to belong to his fine broadcloth and beautifully plaited ruffles.

Mr.
Landholm was not the only one who enjoyed his company.

Between him and Rufus and Miss Cadwallader and Mr.Haye, the round game of society was kept up with great spirit.
One morning Mr.Haye was resting himself with a book in his daughter's room; he had had a long tramp with the farmer.