er's edge and washed his
face; moodily mopping it with his handkerchief he stared across the
water.

The sun in a last blaze was going down behind the higher line of trees.
Roof peaks and chimney lay against a mat of gold. Crows winging toward
the forest to the south speckled the sky behind the chimney. To
Kenny's ardent fancy, the old house, built of gray and ancient stone,
became a rugged cameo set in gold and trees. Whatever arable land
belonged to the hill-farm lay away from the river. North and south
loomed only a primitive maze of trees.

A path wound steeply down to the river's edge and to a boat. Kenny
stared at it in some resentment.

Well, if he must hunt a bridge he would rest there first beneath the
willow. The sun had made him drowsy. He might even camp on the river
bank and if ever a foot came down the path and toward the boat, he
would fire his revolver into the air and demand attention. The
prospect pleased him. He went toward the willow.

Fate having toyed with Kenny tossed him a rose and smiled.

There was a battered horn upon the willow and below a wooden sign:

_Craig Farm Ferry
Please blow the horn_

A battered horn of adventure! What might it not evoke? Woodland
spirits perhaps, romance, a ferryman! Thank God the tree was old, the
horn battered and the willow naiadic in its grace. A trio of blessing!

Kenny whistled softly in amazed delight and blew the horn. Its blast
startled him and the wooded hills seemed to fling the echo back upon
him. In better humor he flung himself down beneath a tree to wait for
the ferryman--and went peacefully to sleep.

St. Kevin had once fallen asleep at a window with his arms outstretched
in prayer; a swallow had made a nest in his hand and the saint had
waited for the swallow's young to hatch. Kenny, with the legend dimly
adrift in his brain, dreamed that he too must wait until a ferryman
grew up. He grew up on the further shore to a youth in patches and
then all at once the dream became a beautiful delight. The youth by a
twist of woodland magic turned to a maid in a glory of old brocade.
Such a maid might have stepped from an ancient tapestry to come in
search of a knight of old.

"Mr. O'Neill!"

Kenny did not stir. He must keep the dream to the end. If he moved
now the maid would vanish.

"Mr. O'Neill!" A hand touched his shoulder.

A haze of old brocade golden in the sunlight retreated and then loomed
persistently ahead