thoughts which returned like a mournful strain of music
once sung by beloved voices, now forever silent.

She could not resist the desire to ride down to the old sycamore.
The pony turned into the bridle-path that led down the bluff and the
sure-footed beast picked his way carefully over the roots and
stones. Betty's heart beat quicker when she saw the noble tree under
whose spreading branches she had spent the happiest day of her life.
The old monarch of the forest was not one whit changed by the wild
winds of winter. The dew sparkled on the nearly full grown leaves;
the little sycamore balls were already as large as marbles.

Betty drew rein at the top of the bank and looked absently at the
tree and into the foam covered pool beneath. At that moment her eyes
saw nothing physical. They held the faraway light of the dreamer,
the look that sees so much of the past and nothing of the present.

Presently her reflections were broken by the actions of the pony.
Madcap had thrown up her head, laid back her ears and commenced to
paw the ground with her forefeet. Betty looked round to see the
cause of Madcap's excitement. What was that! She saw a tall figure
clad in brown leaning against the stone. She saw a long fishing-rod.
What was there so familiar in the poise of that figure? Madcap
dislodged a stone from the path and it went rattling down the rock,
slope and fell with a splash into the water. The man heard it,
turned and faced the hillside. Betty recognized Alfred Clarke. For a
moment she believed she must be dreaming. She had had many dreams of
the old sycamore. She looked again. Yes, it was he. Pale, worn, and
older he undoubtedly looked, but the features were surely those of
Alfred Clarke. Her heart gave a great bound and then seemed to stop
beating while a very agony of joy surged over her and made her
faint. So he still lived. That was her first thought, glad and
joyous, and then memory returning, her face went white as with
clenched teeth she wheeled Madcap and struck her with the switch.
Once on the level bluff she urged her toward the house at a furious
pace.

Col. Zane had just stepped out of the barn door and his face took on
an expression of amazement when he saw the pony come tearing up the
road, Betty's hair flying in the wind and with a face as white as if
she were pursued by a thousand yelling Indians.

"Say, Betts, what the deuce is wrong?" cried the Colonel, when Betty
reached the fence.

"Why di