bank
account. The older boys and girls had already left school to work at
home, and those who did go always hurried back to plant or weed or dig
in the fields as the season demanded. Susie was Elizabeth's comrade,
being of the same age. But there was none of the light and joyous
thoughtlessness of Elizabeth's character in poor Susie's life. The
little girl's hands were already hardened by the broom, the
churn-dasher, and the hoe, and the only emotion Susie ever displayed
was fear lest she might be late in reaching home, and so miss five
minutes' work and suffer punishment at the hands of her father.
Elizabeth often wondered what it would be like to have a father one was
afraid of, and was very kind and gentle with Susie, though she
considered her a complete failure as a playmate.

As they passed the mill, John and Charles Stuart and Wully Johnstone's
Johnny seized the car and took a couple of tumultuous rides down to the
water's edge, but the Martin boys went on steadily and solemnly. Their
father would be sure to hear if they paused to play on the way to
school.

The pond lay cool and brown beneath the shade of the alders and
willows. Away up at the end, where the stream entered from its jungle
of water-reeds and sunken stumps and brown bullrushes, there grew a
tangle of water-plants all in glorious blossom. There were
water-lilies both golden and waxy-white, and blue spikes of
pickerel-weed, and clumps of fragrant musk. And over the surface of
the golden-brown water was spread a fairy web of delicate plant life,
vivid green, and woven of such tiny forms that it looked like airy foam
that a breath would dissolve. On its outer edge was an embroidery of
dainty star-blossoms, like little green forget-me-nots scattered over
the glassy surface.

The green and golden vista of flowers that led away up from this fairy
nook, with the green and golden water winding between the blossoming
banks, always called aloud to Elizabeth whenever she crossed the ravine
by the mill-path. She never looked up the creek without longing to
explore its winding pathway, right up to the depths of Wully
Johnstone's swamp. And yet, strange Elizabeth, when she had once
gained her desire, it had given her anything but enjoyment. She and
Charles Stuart and John had built a raft from old mill slabs that
spring, just when the creek was choked with blue fleur-de-lis and pink
ladies'-slippers. They had gone way up stream on a voyage of
d