Professor Helfenstein returned to the little Pennsylvania village at the time he had indicated, which was about the middle of October. The innkeeper told him his friend had not yet left the farm-house, and the next morning he set out on foot to visit him there.
The mountain-woods, all arrayed in their autumn foliage, were glowing with rich, warm color. Silvery cloud-banks heightened the deep blue of the sky, and their slowly-floating shadows intensified the brightness of the sunlight. "_Ueberall Sonnenschein!_" said the nature-loving German. "_Ach, 's ist ein wunderschönes Land!_"
Brent saw him enter the yard, and came to the door to meet him. The family had dispersed soon after breakfast, and, as there was no one in the house for him to see, Helfenstein declined going in, but stood on the door-step, describing his journeyings in the West.
"Well," said he at last, "are you ready to start with me for New York to-morrow morning, and for Liverpool next Monday?"
"My starting for any place out of sight of these mountains," answered Brent, "depends chiefly on the views of a certain young woman. At present the indications are that no such pilgrimage will ever begin."
"Is it the maiden who dwells in this house?"
For a few moments the professor gazed in silence at the prospective bride-groom. Besides feeling a personal interest in the case, he considered it a good subject for psychic investigation.
"My good friend," he said, with judicial calmness, "why do you wish to espouse Miss Reinfelter?"
Brent knew this question was not meant to be offensive, but was propounded in a spirit of critical analysis. He was about to answer it with a pretence of deep gravity, when Casper came around the corner of the house and asked him where "Sister Rena" was.
"She has gone to the village," replied Brent.
As the boy turned away, his disappointment was so evident that Brent said, "Do you want her to do anything for you, Casper?"
"No, sir," said Casper dejectedly. "I just _want_ her."
Brent smiled, and turned to the professor again.
"I couldn't find a better answer to your question if I thought for a week," he said. "I just _want_ her."
Arms and the men we sing,--not those panoplied and helmeted according to Virgil, nor those of our own day, armed with repeating rifles and drum-majored into popular favor, but rather the heroes of the flint-lock and the priming-wire in the New England of two or three generations ago, the sturdy train-bands that have left scarce one John Gilpin to tell the tale of their valor.