bank either; she regarded nothing until
she came to a place where a foot-track was beaten down the side of the
embankment, as if apparently to entice walkers to stray across a bit of
the meadow and so cut off a large curve of the line. At this point
Zilda heard a loud chirpy voice calling,'Hi! hi! who's there? Is any one
there?'

Zilda did not know from whence the voice came, but she knew from whom it
came. It was Gilby's voice, and she stopped, her soul ravished by the
music. All the way along, bobolinks, canaries, and song-sparrows had
been singing to her, the swallows and red-throats had been talking;
everywhere among the soft spongy mosses, the singing frog of the
Canadian spring had been filling the air with its one soft whistling
note. Zilda had not heard them, but now she stopped suddenly with head
bent, listening eager, enraptured.

'Hi! hi!' called the voice again. 'Is any one there?'

Zilda went down the bank halfway among the bushes and looked over. She
saw Gilby sitting at the edge of the meadow almost in the river water.
She saw at once that something was wrong. His attitude was as natural as
he could make it, such an attitude as a proud man might assume when pain
is chaining him in an awkward position, but Zilda saw that he was
injured. Her heart gave a great bound of pleasure. Ah! her bird was
wounded in the wing; she had him now, for a time at least.

'You! Mam'selle Zilda,' he said in surprise; 'how came you here?'

'I wished to see the broken road, monsieur.' There was nothing in her
voice or manner then or at any other time to indicate that she took a
special interest in him.

'Do you often take such long walks?' he asked with curiosity.

Zilda shrugged her shoulders. 'Sometimes; why not?'

She could not have told why she dissembled; it was instinct, just as it
was the instinct of his proud little spirit to hate to own that he was
helpless. 'Look here,' he said, 'I slipped on the bank--and I--I think I
have sprained my ankle.'

'Oui, monsieur,' said Zilda.

Her manner evinced no surprise; her stolidity was grateful to him.

Stooping down, she took his foot in her hand, gently, but as firmly as
if it had been a horse's hoof. She straightened it, unlaced his muddy
boot, and with strong hands tore the slit further open until she could
take it off.

'Look here,' he said, with a little nervous shout of laughter, 'do you
not know you are hurting me?' It was the only wince he gave, although he