e--that beautiful prize she had won at the summer camp. What could
possibly be more delightful than an afternoon spent in paddling and
drifting about the lake, with her copy of Alfred Noyes' poems to glance
into now and then? The idea was so alluring that she could hardly force
herself to sit through luncheon.

As a rule Marjorie Wilkinson was a sociable being--she enjoyed other
girls' companionship, and possessed an unusual quality of friendliness.
But to-day she felt dreamy; she longed to get away from everybody, where
conversation would be unnecessary, and where she could give herself up
to her own drowsy imaginings. For she had many happy things to think
about. That very morning she had received a letter--nothing thrilling in
it, but just an interesting, boyish account of activities at
Princeton--whose signature had made her heart beat more rapidly. For it
was from John Hadley, the boy whom she had liked and admired most of all
the Boy Scouts the previous year. The very fact that he should still
think of her amidst all the rush of his busy college life flattered her,
and set her to dreaming.

So she found her book and started for the lake, only to remember, when
she had gone half of the distance, that she had left her paddle in the
closet.

"I believe I'll leave it in the canoe after this," she decided; "nobody
would ever think of taking the canoe, and it would be so much less
trouble. And I'd probably go out oftener if I didn't have to come up
here for the paddle every time."

She hurried across the sun-lit campus, through the trees, to the little
lake. There under a weeping-willow, lay the canoe.

A thrill of delight passed over her as she turned the canoe right side
up; the possession of such a beautiful object had never lost its charm.
She wondered whether she was selfish in enjoying it alone, but dismissed
the idea when she recalled the fact that Lily and Doris and Ruth would
all be occupied with their own affairs.

The picturesque scene--only a tiny lake in comparison with the one at
camp--and the smooth, gliding motion of the canoe were in perfect
harmony with the girl's mood and the quiet, peaceful day. She began to
hum softly to the rhythmic dip, dip of the paddle into the still water.

"If John Hadley were only at Episcopal Academy now," she mused, "maybe
we could sneak some good times!" Then she fell to dreaming that he
suddenly appeared on the edge of the lake, and that they spent the
afternoon t