ense urging
upon him that she was a stranger in Canaan who had lost her way--the
preposterousness of any one's losing the way in Canaan not just now
appealing to his every--day sense.

"Can I--can I--" he stammered, blushing miserably, meaning to finish
with "direct you," or "show you the way."

Then he looked at her again and saw what seemed to him the strangest
sight of his life. The lady's eyes had filled with tears--filled and
overfilled. "I'll sit here on the log with you," she said. And her
voice was the voice which he had heard saying, "REMEMBER! ACROSS MAIN
STREET BRIDGE AT NOON!"

"WHAT!" he gasped.

"You don't need to dust it!" she went on, tremulously. And even then
he did not know who she was.

XI

WHEN HALF-GODS GO

There was a silence, for if the dazzled young man could have spoken at
all, He could have found nothing to say; and, perhaps, the lady would
not trust her own voice just then. His eyes had fallen again; he was
too dazed, and, in truth, too panic-stricken, now, to look at her,
though if he had been quite sure that she was part of a wonderful dream
he might have dared. She was seated beside him, and had handed him her
parasol in a little way which seemed to imply that of course he had
reached for it, so that it was to be seen how used she was to have all
tiny things done for her, though this was not then of his tremulous
observing. He did perceive, however, that he was to furl the dainty
thing; he pressed the catch, and let down the top timidly, as if
fearing to break or tear it; and, as it closed, held near his face, he
caught a very faint, sweet, spicy emanation from it like wild roses and
cinnamon.

He did not know her; but his timidity and a strange little choke in his
throat, the sudden fright which had seized upon him, were not caused by
embarrassment. He had no thought that she was one he had known but
could not, for the moment, recall; there was nothing of the awkwardness
of that; no, he was overpowered by the miracle of this meeting. And
yet, white with marvelling, he felt it to be so much more touchingly a
great happiness than he had ever known that at first it was
inexpressibly sad.

At last he heard her voice again, shaking a little, as she said:

"I am glad you remembered."

"Remembered what?" he faltered.

"Then you don't?" she cried. "And yet you came."

"Came here, do you mean?"

"Yes--now, at noon."

"Ah!" he half whispered, unable to speak alo