a moment. With a quick movement he walked
to the blackboard, caught up a section of sheepskin, and began
erasing the symbols of the day's instructions.

"Well, I suppose there's reward in heaven," he said to himself, as he
set the little schoolroom in order. "There isn't much here. The
farmers will pay a man more to doctor their sick sheep than to teach
their children. But, of course, they get both mutton and wool from a
sheep. I won't stand it longer than the spring. If others can take
the chance I can take it too. If it were not for her I would go
to-morrow."

The last remark seemed to unlink a new chain of thought. The grey
eyes lit up again. He wielded the broom briskly for a minute, then
tossed it in a corner, fastened the windows, slipped a little folder
into his pocket, locked the door behind him, carefully placed the key
under the stone step where the first child in the morning would find
it, and swung in a rapid stride down a by-path leading from the
little schoolhouse into the forest.

Ten minutes' quick walking in the woods, now glorious in all their
autumn splendour, brought him to a point where the sky stood up, pale
blue, evasive, through the trees. The next moment he was at the
water's edge, and a limpid lake stretched away to where the forests
of the farther shore mingled hazily with sky and water. The point
where he stood was a little bay, ringed with water-worn stones and
hemmed around by the forest, except for one wedge of blue that
broadened into the distance. He glanced about, as though expecting
someone; he whistled a line of a popular song, but the only reply was
from a saucy eavesdropper which, perched on a near-by limb, trilled
back its own liquid notes in answer.

"I may as well improve the moments consulting my chart," he remarked
to his undulating image in the water. "This thing of embarking on two
new seas at once calls for skilful piloting." He seated himself on a
stone, drew from his pocket the folder, and spread a map before him.

In a few moments he was so engrossed that he did not hear the almost
noiseless motion of a canoe as it thrust its brown nose into the blue
wedge before him. The canoe slid with its own momentum gracefully
through the quiet waters, suddenly revealing a picture for the heart
of any artist. Kneeling near its stern, her paddle held aloft and
dripping, her brown arms and browner hair glistening in the mellow
sun, her face bright with the light of its own expect