rked the
fall, Betty gave a strong forward pull on the paddle, a deep stroke
which momentarily retarded their progress even in that swift
current, and then, a short backward stroke, far under the stern of
the canoe, and the little vessel turned straight, almost in the
middle of the course between the two rocks. As she raised her paddle
into the canoe and smiled at the fascinated young man, the bow
dipped, and with that peculiar downward movement, that swift,
exhilarating rush so dearly loved by canoeists, they shot down the
smooth incline of water, were lost for a moment in a white cloud of
mist, and in another they coated into a placid pool.

"Was not that delightful?" she asked, with just a little conscious
pride glowing in her dark eyes.

"Miss Zane, it was more than that. I apologize for my suspicions.
You have admirable skill. I only wish that on my voyage down the
River of Life I could have such a sure eye and hand to guide me
through the dangerous reefs and rapids."

"You are poetical," said Betty, who laughed, and at the same time
blushed slightly. "But you are right about the guide. Jonathan says
'always get a good guide,' and as guiding is his work he ought to
know. But this has nothing in common with fishing, and here is my
favorite place under the old sycamore."

With a long sweep of the paddle she ran the canoe alongside a stone
beneath a great tree which spread its long branches over the creek
and shaded the pool. It was a grand old tree and must have guarded
that sylvan spot for centuries. The gnarled and knotted trunk was
scarred and seamed with the ravages of time. The upper part was
dead. Long limbs extended skyward, gaunt and bare, like the masts of
a storm beaten vessel. The lower branches were white and shining,
relieved here and there by brown patches of bark which curled up
like old parchment as they shelled away from the inner bark. The
ground beneath the tree was carpeted with a velvety moss with little
plots of grass and clusters of maiden-hair fern growing on it. From
under an overhanging rock on the bank a spring of crystal water
bubbled forth.

Alfred rigged up the rods, and baiting a hook directed Betty to
throw her line well out into the current and let it float down into
the eddy. She complied, and hardly had the line reached the circle
of the eddy, where bits of white foam floated round and round, when
there was a slight splash, a scream from Betty and she was standing
up in the