“Oh, Miss Harson!” said Clara, in a low tone.  “Is that true?”

“We do not know that it is, dear, nor do we know that it is not.  Here are some verses about it which I like very much: 

     “’The tremulousness began, as legends tell,
       When he, the meek One, bowed his head to death
     E’en on an aspen cross, when some near dell
       Was visited by men whose every breath
     That Sufferer gave them.  Hastening to the wood—­
       The wood of aspens—­they with ruffian power
     Did hew the fair, pale tree, which trembling stood
       As if awestruck; and from that fearful hour
     Aspens have quivered as with conscious dread
     Of that foul crime which bowed the meek Redeemer’s head.

     “’Far distant from those days, oh let not man,
       Boastful of reason, check with scornful speech
     Those legends pure; for who the heart may scan
       Or say what hallowed thoughts such legends teach
     To those who may perchance their scant flocks keep
       On hill or plain, to whom the quivering tree
     Hinteth a thought which, holy, solemn, deep,
       Sinks in the heart, bidding their spirits flee
     All thoughts of vice, that dread and hateful thing
     Which troubleth of each joy the pure and gushing spring?’”

CHAPTER IX.

ALL A-BLOW:  THE APPLE TREE.

It certainly was a beautiful sight, and the children exclaimed over it in ectasy.  It was now past the middle of April, and Miss Harson had taken her little flock to visit an apple-orchard at some distance from Elmridge, and the whole place seemed to be one mass of pink-and-white bloom.

“And how deliciously sweet it is!” said Malcolm as he sniffed the fragrant air.

“Oh!” exclaimed Edith, turning up her funny little nose to get the full benefit of all this fragrance; “I can’t breathe half enough at once.”

“That is just my case,” said her governess, laughing, “but I did not think to say it in that way.  Get all you can of this deliciousness, children; I wish that we could carry some of it away with us.”

“And so you shall,” replied a hearty voice as Mr. Grove, the owner of the orchard, came up with a knife in his hand and began cutting off small branches of apple—­blossoms.  “I like to see folks enjoy things.”

“I hope you don’t mind our trespassing on your grounds?” said Miss Harson.  “I can engage that my little friends will do no injury, and I particularly wished them to see your beautiful orchard in bloom; it is almost equal to a field of roses.”

“Don’t mind it at all, miss,” was the reply—­“quite the contrary; and I think, myself, it’s a pretty sight.  Smells good, too.  Now, here’s a nosegay big enough for you three young ladies, and Bub there can carry it.”

Malcolm, who was quite proud of his name, felt so indignant at being called “Bub” that he almost forgot the farmer’s generosity; but his governess acknowledged it, very much to the worthy man’s satisfaction.