This was enough for Phil to think of and wonder about all the rest of the happy days at the lake.  He could walk now with comparative ease, not of course without crutches, and the gold and scarlet glory of the autumn leaves was a perpetual delight to him.  He gathered them for wreaths and bouquets; he pressed them and ironed them and varnished them, and tried every method suggested to him for keeping them; and when it came packing time it was found necessary to get an extra trunk to contain all the woodland treasures.

The happy summer had ended, and not without a lingering look of regret that it could not last longer was the farewell said to the house and lake and every pretty graceful tree or plant that adorned them.

They found the city house all in nice order for them, for Aunt Rachel was always wise in her forethought and provision for future comfort.

Phil’s little room near her own had been especially attended to, and he found it, in all its arrangements, as complete and satisfactory as the lovely summer nook he had vacated.

In three weeks’ time they were to start for Europe.  The days were spent in preparation.  Phil must have a steamer-chair, plenty of clothes, wraps, and contrivances.  All Aunt Rachel’s thoughts were for Phil’s comfort; but it did not spoil him nor make him selfish; he had the happy faculty of receiving kindness gracefully, as if glad to be the means of making others happy by his gratitude, not as if it were his due in any way.  And in his turn he was thoughtful and considerate for others, in trifles light as air, but nevertheless showing by the gentle, tender manner that he meant them as evidences of his affection.  He knew Lisa dreaded parting from him, so before her he was quite silent as to his expected pleasures, although his imagination was constantly picturing the details of an ocean voyage.  His sketch-book was getting full of yachts and craft of all sorts and sizes—­some that would have astonished a sailor very much.  Whenever he met Lisa he kissed her, whether with hat on she was hurrying out on some errand for Miss Schuyler, or on her return, with arms full of bundles, she was hastening through the hall.

He was necessarily left much alone, and thus had the chance to draw a charming little picture for Lisa, and frame it with acorns, lichen, and red maple leaves.  He hung it in her room one day when she was out, and, to his surprise, the next day it was missing.  He had expected some recognition of it, but none coming, he kept still, wondering what Lisa had done with it.  The secret came out in due time.

A day or two before their departure Lisa came to him with tears in her eyes and a little package in her hand.

“Open it, dear; it is for you.”

It was a tiny leather purse with four dollars in it.

“Lisa, you must not give me all this.”

“Yes, it is yours—­your own earnings.  I sold your little picture, and bought this purse with part of the money, so that you might have something to spend just as you pleased.”