the flutter of a cloak.

The river turned. Joan followed the bend for a little way and struck
off again into the thick of the forest through the cloistered gloom of
many pines. She came, after what seemed to Kenny a long, long time, to
a rude cabin made of logs. There was a light in the window. Joan
opened the door and disappeared.

If he had known definitely what he thought, he told himself with an
Irish twist, the agony of his suspense would have been worse and less.
The sharp intensity of the pain in his heart terrified him. Whatever
lay in the cabin of logs was something apart from him. The night
noises of the forest blared strangely in his ears. He was conscious of
the odor of pines; conscious of a shower of pine-needles when he
brushed back against a tree. And there were cones beneath his feet.
But his madness would not bear him on to the cabin door. At intervals
with fire in his brain he knew he heard the voice of a man.

In a vague eternity of minutes he waited until the door opened and
lamplight streamed brightly over the sill. A man stepped forth.
Something seemed to snap in Kenny's heart. Relief roared in his ears
and rushed unbidden to his lips.

"Oh, my God!" he gasped.

It was the gentle, white-haired minister with a book beneath his arm.

Startled the old man drew back and peered uncertainly into the
darkness. Kenny approached.

"I--I beg your pardon," he said, wiping his forehead. "I'm sorry."

Joan came to the door and stared.

"Kenny!" she exclaimed. And her voice had in it a note of distress.
She glanced at Mr. Abbott, who glanced in turn at Kenny with an air of
gentle inquiry. His confidence in Mr. O'Neill, never very robust, had
waned that day upon the river. It was weakening more and more.

Tongue-tied and scarlet, Kenny stared into the cabin. Its single room
with its raftered walls, books and a lamp, an old-fashioned stove, a
work-basket, a faded rag-carpet and the trophies of childhood, boy and
girl, was snug and comfortable.

"It's Donald's and mine," said Joan. "We've always studied here with
Mr. Abbott."

"Mr. O'Neill," said the minister stiffly, "it--it has been a sort of
secret. Mr. Craig was strangely opposed to the tuition I offered years
ago. Joan settled the problem for herself."

It was evident all of it had lain a little sorely on the old man's
conscience. It had been a singular problem, deception or the welfare
of the two children suffering at the