letters, felt tired. She had been up at
Molly's call a dozen times in the night.

"We're going to spend to-morrow with Mrs. Leroy," she reminded her
mother.

"She looks like Mrs. Malaprop," said Molly crossly.

The daughter's face flushed. Youth is rawly sensitive to ridicule of
its friends. Besides, what would they find at Lake Nancy? It would be
poor, she expected that, and it might be--pitiful? Not to her, not to
her, but Molly was so unable to see behind things. If a thing was poor
to Molly it was only poor and she said so. Alexina hoped her mother
would not go.

But when Friday came Molly, in feverish, restless state, was ready for
anything and even brightened up over it, while it was Alexina who was
petulant, and put on one dress and took it off, and tried another,
even with William Leroy down-stairs in the wagonette, waiting.

But she felt better as she came out into the sunshine and the dress
she had finally decided on seemed to settle on her into sudden
jauntiness.

William shook hands. There was a comfortable sense of humour about
him.

"It's fair to divide families into component parts on occasions," he
stated, and put Alexina in a place by his own and Molly behind. Molly
pouted.

"And, besides, we are going to drop Henderson at a sick parishioner's
on the way," he said, with a naughty glance at her. "I met him
starting to the livery stable just now and stopped him."

Molly's face cleared. She met his eyes with insouciance, but, somehow,
one felt all at once that she liked him better.

Mr. Henderson came out with a satchel and climbed in. He looked stern
and uninviting, Alexina thought, but the note of Molly's random
remarkings promptly brightened. Willy flicked the whip above the big
grey span and off they trotted across town, westward.

The morning was keen enough that the sun's warmth was pleasant and
quickened the blood. Aden was left behind. Here and there on the
outskirts frame houses, crudely and hideously cheap, were building.
Land everywhere was being cleared, the felled trees lying about, the
whirl of a portable sawmill telling their destiny, while burning
stumps filled the air with creosote pungency.

Then the despoilments of progress were left behind and the untouched
pine woods closed about them, and trees rose tall, straight, twigless,
to where a never-ceasing murmur soughed, and the light came sifting,
speckled, and flickering through the gloom, upon the sandy ground and
scrub