th the glorious, bracing beauty of the newly risen day.

Landing with stiffened limbs, he drew up the canoe on a bit of sandy
beach, over which sturdy old bushes, elder and birch, battered by the
north winds, leaned in friendly, concealing protection. He himself would
be able to lie down here, among the tall ferns and the stunted
blueberry-scrub, as secluded and secure as ever he had been in prison.

Being hungry and thirsty, he ate and drank, consulting his map the while
and fixing approximately his whereabouts. He looked at his little watch
and wound it up, and fingered the pages of the railway guide he found
beside it.

The acts brought up the image of the girl who had furnished him with these
useful accessories to flight. For lack of another name he called her the
Wild Olive--remembering her yearning, not wholly unlike his own, to be
grafted back into the good olive-tree of Organized Society. With some
shame he perceived that he had scarcely thought of her through the night.
It was astounding to recollect that not twelve hours ago she had kissed
him and sent him on his journey. To him the gulf between then and now was
so wide and blank that it might have been twelve weeks, or twelve months,
or twelve years. It had been the night of the birth of a new creature, of
the transmigration of a soul; it had no measurement in time, and threw all
that preceded it into the mists of prenatal ages.

These thoughts passed through his mind as he made a pillow for himself
with his white flannel jacket, and twisted the ferns above it into a
shelter from the flies. Having done this, he stood still and pondered.

"Have I really become a new creature?" he asked himself.

There was much in the outward conditions to encourage the fancy, while his
inner consciousness found it easy to be credulous. Nothing was left of
Norrie Ford but the mere flesh and bones--the least stable part of
personality. Norrie Ford was gone--not dead, but gone--blasted,
annihilated stamped out of existence, by the act of Organized Society. In
its place the night of transition had called up some one else.

"But who? ... Who am I? ... What am I?"

Above all, a name seemed required to give him entity. It was a repetition
of his feeling about the Wild Olive--the girl in the cabin in the woods.
Suddenly he remembered that, if he had found a name for her, she had also
found one for him--and that it was written on the steamer ticket in his
pocket. He drew it out,