the Old Country; but
what pleased him most was the serenity in the clear, innocent eyes.

He was not in love with the picture--he would probably have smiled at
the notion--but he had a curious feeling that he would meet the girl
some day, and that it would then be a privilege merely to speak to her.
This was, after all, not so extravagant a fancy as it might appear, for
romance, the mother of chivalry and many graces, still finds shelter in
the hearts of men who dwell in the wide spaces of the newer lands.
Shrewd and practical as these men are, they see visions now and then,
and, what is more, with bleeding hands and toil incredible prove them to
be realities.

By and by Wyllard put the photograph back into his pocket, and filled
his pipe again. It was almost dark before he had smoked it out. The
thrush had gone, and only the ripple of the water broke the silence,
until he heard footsteps on the stones behind him. Looking around, he
saw a young woman moving towards the river. He watched her with a quiet
interest, for his perceptions were sharper than usual, and it seemed to
him that she was very much in harmony with what he thought of as the
key-tone of the place. She was tall and shapely, and she moved with
grace. When, poised upon a shelf of rock as if considering the easiest
way to the water, she stopped for a moment, her figure fell into
reposeful lines, but that was after all only what he had expected, for
he had half-consciously studied the Englishwomen whom he had met in the
West.

The Western women usually moved, and certainly spoke, with an almost
superfluous vivacity and alertness. There was in them a feverish
activity, which contrasted with the English deliberation, which had
sometimes exasperated him. Now he felt that this slowness of movement
was born of the tranquillity of the well-trimmed land, and he realized
that it would have troubled his sense of fitness if this girl had
clattered down across the stones hurriedly and noisily.

At first he could not see her face, but when she went on a little
further it became evident that she desired to cross the river, and was
regarding the row of stepping stones somewhat dubiously. One or two had
fallen over, or had been washed away by a flood, for there were several
wide gaps between them, through which the stream frothed whitely. As
soon as Wyllard noticed her hesitation, he rose and moved towards her.

"You want to get across?" he asked.

She was still gl