ech was likewise, and he stood foolishly opening and
shutting his mouth, unable to effect a sound.

"I am waiting for the packet to go down to Coreyville," announced Miss
Gusty, straightening her plumed hat, and smiling. "Mr. Gallop says it's
an hour late; but I don't care, it's such a grand day."

Mr. Opp removed his eyes long enough to direct an inquiring glance at
the heavens and the earth. "Is it?" he asked, finding his voice. "I been
so occupied with business that I haven't scarcely taken occasion to note
the weather."

"Why, it's all soft and warm, just like spring," she continued, holding
out her arms and looking up at the sky. "I've been wishing I had time to
walk along the river a piece."

"I'll take you," said Mr. Opp, eagerly. "We can hear the whistle of the
boat in amply sufficient time to get back. Besides, it is a hour late."

She hesitated. "You're real sure you can get me back?"

"Perfectly," he announced. "I might say in all my experience I never
have yet got a lady left on a boat."

Miss Guinevere, used to being guided, handed him her band-box, and
followed him up the steep bank.

The path wound in and out among the trees, now losing itself in the
woods, now coming out upon the open river. The whole world was a riot of
crimson and gold, and it was warm with that soft echo of summer that
brings some of its sweetness, and all of its sadness, but none of its
mirth.

Mr. Opp walked beside his divinity oblivious to all else. The sunlight
fell unnoticed except when it lay upon her face; the only breeze that
blew from heaven was the one that sent a stray curl floating across her
cheek. As Mr. Opp walked, he talked, putting forth every effort to
please. His burning desire to be worthy of her led him into all manner
of verbal extravagances, and the mere fact that she was taller than he
caused him to indulge in more lofty and figurative language. He captured
fugitive quotations, evolved strange metaphors, coined words, and poured
all in a glittering heap of eloquence before her shrine.

As he talked, his companion moved heedlessly along beside him, stopping
now and then to gather a spray of goldenrod, or to gaze absently at the
river through some open space in the trees. For Miss Guinevere Gusty
lived in a world of her own--a world of vague possibilities, of
half-defined longings, and intangible dreams. Love was still an abstract
sentiment, something radiant and breathless that might envelop her at
a