applause that the windows rattled
in their casings.

John Watson sat still, but his heart was singing within him "Pearlie,
Pearlie, God bless her!"

When the judges met for their decision it was found that they had
forgotten to mark Pearl as to memory, gesture, pronunciation, etc.,
as their rules required them to do.

Father O'Flynn, the little Irish priest, wiping his eyes
suspiciously, said: "Gentlemen, my decision is for Number 5." The
other two nodded.

And so it came about that Pearlie Watson was once more called to face
the large and cheering audience, while Father O'Flynn, with many kind
words, presented her with the W. C. T. U. oratorical prize.

Miss Morrison went home that night disturbed in spirit, wondering if,
after all, there might not be something more in it than gestures,
voice, memory, and articulation.

CHAPTER V

AT THE CHICKEN HILL SCHOOL

Ho! I'm going back to where
We were youngsters! Meet me there,
Dear old barefoot chums, and we
Will be as we used to be,
Lawless rangers up and down
The old creek behind the town.

_----James Whitcomb Riley._

IF a river is measured by the volume of water in its current, the
Souris River, on whose southern bank the little town of Millford is
built, is but an insignificant stream; but if bold and precipitous
banks, sheer cliffs, and a broad valley are to be considered, then
the Souris may lay claim to some distinction. For a few weeks in the
spring of the year, too, it is a swift and mighty flood that goes
sweeping through the valley, carrying on its turbulent waters
whirling ice-jams, branches of trees, and even broken bridge-timbers
from the far country known as the "Antlers of the Souris." When the
summer is very dry, the river shrinks to a gentle, trickling thread
of water, joining shallow pools, overhung with gray-green willows
that whiten in the breeze.

At Millford, the Souris flows almost straight east and keeps this
direction for about three miles, and then turns sharply north toward
the Sand Hill country, where six miles farther on it joins the
Assiniboine.

On one of its banks, just before it takes the northern turn, stands
the farmhouse of Thomas Perkins, a big white frame house, set in a
grove of maples; a mile south is the big stone house of Samuel
Motherwell, where Pearlie Watson wiped out the stain on her family's
honour by working off the old ten-dollar debt of her father's.

Two miles farther east,