k again, and the girl's
head went down on his shoulder; and he felt her cheek hot with blushes
against his and a very suspicious drop of moisture slipped down inside
his collar.

When he had held Betty Jo very close for a while, and had whispered
comforting things in her ear, and had smiled over her shoulder at his
old teacher, the banker sent the girl to find her lover while he should
have a serious talk with Auntie Sue.

The long shadows of the late afternoon were on the mountain-side when
Brian Kent and Betty Jo came down the hill to the little log house by
the river.

The girl had said to him simply, "You are to come, now, Brian;--Auntie
Sue and Mr. Ward sent me to tell you."

She was very serious, and as they walked together clung closely to his
arm. And the man, too, seeming to feel the uselessness of words for such
an occasion, was silent. When he helped her over the rail-fence at the
lower edge of the clearing, he held her in his arms for a little; then
they went on.

They saw the beautiful, tree-clad hills lying softly outlined in the
shadows like folds of green and timeworn velvet, extending ridge
on ridge into the blue. They saw the river, their river, making its
gleaming way with many a curve and bend to the mighty sea, that was
hidden somewhere far beyond the distant sky-line of their vision; and
between them and the river, at the foot of the hill, they saw the little
log house with Auntie Sue and Homer T. Ward waiting in the doorway.

When the banker saw the man at Betty Jo's side, his mind was far from
the clerk whom he had known more than a year before in the city. His
thoughts were on the author, the scholar, the genius, whose book had
so compelled his respect and admiration. This tall fellow, with the
athletic shoulders and deeply tanned face, who was dressed in the rude
garb of the backwoodsman, with his coat over his arm, his ax on his
shoulder, and his dinner-pail in his hand,--who was he? And why was
Betty Jo so familiar with this stranger,--Betty Jo, who was usually
so reserved, with her air of competent self-possession? Homer T. Ward
turned to look inquiringly at Auntie Sue.

His old teacher smiled back at him without speaking.

Then, Betty Jo and Brian Kent were standing before him.

"Here he is, Uncle Homer," said the girl.

Brian, hearing her speak those two revealing words, and seeing her go to
the bank president, who put his arm around her with the loving intimacy
of a father, s