nd knocked at the door. Stephen came to
it, a stout grizzled farmer, with a chubby boy on his shoulder. He was
not much changed; Cuthbert easily recognized him, but to Stephen
Marshall no recognition came of this man with whom he had played and
worked for years. Cuthbert was obliged to tell who he was. He was made
instantly and warmly welcome. Stephen was unfeignedly glad to see him,
and Stephen's comely wife, whom he remembered as a slim, fresh-cheeked
valley girl, extended a kind and graceful hospitality. The boys and
girls, too, soon made friends with him. Yet he felt himself the
stranger and the alien, whom the long, swift-passing years had shut
forever from his old place.

He and Stephen talked late that night, and in the morning he yielded
to their entreaties to stay another day with them. He spent it
wandering about the farm and the old haunts of wood and stream. Yet he
could not find himself. This valley had his past in its keeping, but
it could not give it back to him; he had lost the master word that
might have compelled it.

He asked Stephen fully about all his old friends and neighbours with
one exception. He could not ask him what had become of Joyce Cameron.
The question was on his lips a dozen times, but he shrank from
uttering it. He had a vague, secret dread that the answer, whatever it
might be, would hurt him.

In the evening he yielded to a whim and went across to the Cameron
homestead, by the old footpath which was still kept open. He walked
slowly and dreamily, with his eyes on the far hills scarfed in the
splendour of sunset. So he had walked in the old days, but he had no
dreams now of what lay beyond the hills, and Joyce would not be
waiting among the firs.

The stile he remembered was gone, replaced by a little rustic gate. As
he passed through it he lifted his eyes and there before him he saw
her, standing tall and gracious among the grey trees, with the light
from the west falling over her face. So she had stood, so she had
looked many an evening of the long-ago. She had not changed; he
realized that in the first amazed, incredulous glance. Perhaps there
were lines on her face, a thread or two of silver in the soft brown
hair, but those splendid steady blue eyes were the same, and the soul
of her looked out through them, true to itself, the staunch, brave,
sweet soul of the maiden ripened to womanhood.

"Joyce!" he said, stupidly, unbelievingly.

She smiled and put out her hand. "I am