u mean it," said Ruth; "but you must mean it,
else I can't ever be your friend."

Sandy shook his fist at the bird.

"You spalpeen, you! If I had ye down here I'd throw ye out of the
tree! But you mustn't believe him. I'll stick to my word as the wind
to the tree-tops. No--I don't mean that. As the stream to the shore.
No-"

He stopped and laughed. All figures of speech conspired to make him
break his word.

Somewhere from out the forgotten world came six long, lingering
strokes of a bell. Sandy and Ruth untied the canoe and paddled out
into midstream, leaving the willow bower full of memories and the
vireo still hopping about among the branches.

"I'll paddle you up to the bridge," said Ruth; "then you will be near
the post-office."

Sandy's voice was breaking to say that she could paddle him up to the
moon if she would only stay there between him and the sun, with her
hair forming a halo about her face. But they were going down-stream,
and all too soon he was stepping out of the canoe to earth again.

"And will I have to be waiting till the morrow to see you?" he asked,
with his hand on the boat.

"To-morrow? Not until Sunday."

"But Sunday is a month off! You'll be coming for the mail?"

"We send for the mail," said Ruth, demurely.

"Then ye'll be sending in vain for yours. I'll hold it back till ye
come yourself, if I lose my position for it."

Ruth put three feet of water between them, then she looked up with
mischief in her eyes. "I don't want you to lose your position," she
said.

"Then you'll come?"

"Perhaps."

Sandy watched her paddle away straight into the heart of the sun. He
climbed the bank and waved her out of sight. He had to use a maple
branch, for his hat and handkerchief, not to mention less material
possessions, were floating down-stream in the boat with Ruth.

"Hello, Kilday!" called Dr. Fenton from the road above. "Going
up-town? I'll give you a lift."

Sandy turned and looked up at the doctor impatiently. The presence of
other people in the world seemed an intrusion.

"I've been out to the Meeches' all afternoon," said the doctor,
wearily, mopping his face with a red-bordered handkerchief.

"Is Martha worse?" asked Sandy, in quick alarm.

"No, she's better," said the doctor, gruffly; "she died at four
o'clock."

CHAPTER XVIII

THE VICTIM

Some poet has described love as a little glow and a little shiver; to
Sandy it was more like a ravaging fire in his hear