Rebecca's visit to Milltown was all that herglowing fancy had painted it, except thatrecent readings about Rome and Venicedisposed her to believe that those cities mighthave an advantage over Milltown in the matterof mere pictorial beauty. So soon does the souloutgrow its mansions that after once seeingMilltown her fancy ran out to the future sight ofPortland; for that, having islands and a harborand two public monuments, must be far morebeautiful than Milltown, which would, she felt, takeits proud place among the cities of the earth, byreason of its tremendous business activity ratherthan by any irresistible appeal to the imagination.

　　It would be impossible for two children to seemore, do more, walk more, talk more, eat more, orask more questions than Rebecca and Emma Janedid on that eventful Wednesday.

　　"She's the best company I ever see in all mylife," said Mrs. Cobb to her husband that evening.

　　"We ain't had a dull minute this day. She's well-mannered, too; she didn't ask for anything, andwas thankful for whatever she got. Did you watchher face when we went into that tent where theywas actin' out Uncle Tom's Cabin? And did youtake notice of the way she told us about the bookwhen we sat down to have our ice cream? I tell youHarriet Beecher Stowe herself couldn't 'a' doneit better justice.""I took it all in," responded Mr. Cobb, who waspleased that "mother" agreed with him aboutRebecca. "I ain't sure but she's goin' to turn outsomethin' remarkable,--a singer, or a writer, or alady doctor like that Miss Parks up to Cornish.""Lady doctors are always home'paths, ain'tthey?" asked Mrs. Cobb, who, it is needless to say,was distinctly of the old school in medicine.

　　"Land, no, mother; there ain't no home'path'bout Miss Parks--she drives all over the country.""I can't see Rebecca as a lady doctor, somehow,"mused Mrs. Cobb. "Her gift o' gab is what'sgoin' to be the makin' of her; mebbe she'll lecture,or recite pieces, like that Portland elocutionist thatcome out here to the harvest supper.""I guess she'll be able to write down her ownpieces," said Mr. Cobb confidently; "she couldmake 'em up faster 'n she could read 'em out of abook.""It's a pity she's so plain looking," remarkedMrs. Cobb, blowing out the candle.

　　"PLAIN LOOKING, mother?" exclaimed her husbandin astonishment. "Look at the eyes of her;look at the hair of her, an' the smile, an' thatthere dimple! Look at Alice Robinson, that'scalled the prettiest child on the river, an' see howRebecca shines her ri' down out o' sight! I hopeMirandy'll favor her comin' over to see us realoften, for she'll let off some of her steam here, an'

　　the brick house'll be consid'able safer for everybodyconcerned. We've known what it was to hevchildren, even if 't was more 'n thirty years ago,an' we can make allowances."Notwithstanding the encomiums of Mr. and Mrs.

　　Cobb, Rebecca made a poor hand at compositionwriting at this time. Miss Dearborn gave herevery sort of subject that she had ever been givenherself: Cloud Pictures; Abraham Lincoln; Nature;Philanthropy; Slavery; Intemperance; Joyand Duty; Solitude; but with none of them didRebecca seem to grapple satisfactorily.

　　"Write as you talk, Rebecca," insisted poor MissDearborn, who secretly knew that she could nevermanage a good composition herself.

　　"But gracious me, Miss Dearborn! I don't talkabout nature and slavery. I can't write unless Ihave something to say, can I?""That is what compositions are for," returnedMiss Dearborn doubtfully; "to make you havethings to say. Now in your last one, on solitude, youhaven't said anything very interesting, and you'vemade it too common and every-day to sound well.

　　There are too many `yous' and `yours' in it; youought to say `one' now and then, to make it seemmore like good writing. `One opens a favoritebook;' `One's thoughts are a great comfort insolitude,' and so on.""I don't know any more about solitude this weekthan I did about joy and duty last week," grumbledRebecca.

　　"You tried to be funny about joy and duty,"said Miss Dearborn reprovingly; "so of course youdidn't succeed.""I didn't know you were going to make us readthe things out loud," said Rebecca with an embarrassedsmile of recollection.

　　"Joy and Duty" had been the inspiring subjectgiven to the older children for a theme to be writtenin five minutes.

　　Rebecca had wrestled, struggled, perspired invain. When her turn came to read she was obligedto confess she had written nothing.

　　"You have at least two lines, Rebecca," insistedthe teacher, "for I see them on your slate.""I'd rather not read them, please; they are notgood," pleaded Rebecca.

　　"Read what you have, good or bad, little ormuch; I am excusing nobody."Rebecca rose, overcome with secret laughterdread, and mortification; then in a low voice sheread the couplet:--When Joy and Duty clashLet Duty go to smash.

　　Dick Carter's head disappeared under the desk,while Living Perkins choked with laughter.

　　Miss Dearborn laughed too; she was little morethan a girl, and the training of the young idea seldomappealed to the sense of humor.

　　"You must stay after school and try again,Rebecca," she said, but she said it smilingly. "Yourpoetry hasn't a very nice idea in it for a good litt............