hed out a stylograph, and wrote the date while
she watched over his shoulder.

"Discovered what seems to be a small dark-red newt under a stone near
Hurryon Brook. Couldn't make it bite me, so let Kathleen hold it. Query:
Is it a land or water lizard, a salamander, or a newt; and what does it
feed on and where does it deposit its eggs?"

Kathleen's violet eyes wandered to the written page opposite.

"Did you really see an otter, Scott?"

"Yes, I did!" he exclaimed. "Out in the Gray Water, swimming like a dog.
That was yesterday afternoon. It's a scarce creature here. I'll tell you
what, Kathleen; we'll take our luncheon and go out and spend the day
watching for it."

"No," she said, drying her hands on her handkerchief, "I can't spend
every minute of the day with you. Ask some other woman."

"What other woman?" She was gazing out at the sunlit ripples. A little
unquiet thrill leaped through her veins, but she went on carelessly:

"Take some pretty woman out with you. There are several here----"

"Pretty woman," he repeated. "Do you think that's the only reason I want
you to come?"

"Only reason? What a silly thing to say, Scott. I am not a pretty woman
to you--in that sense----"

"You are the prettiest I ever saw," he said, looking at her; and again
the unquiet thrill ran like lightning through her veins. But she only
laughed carelessly and said:

"Oh, of course, Geraldine and I expect our big brother to say such
things."

"It has nothing to do with Geraldine or with brothers," he said
doggedly. She strove to laugh, caught his gaze, and, discountenanced,
turned toward the stream.

"We can cross on the stepping stones," she suggested. And after a
moment: "Are you coming?"

"See here, Kathleen," he said, "you're not acting squarely with me."

"What do you mean?"

"No, you're not. I'm a man, and you know it."

"Of course you are, Scott."

"Then I wish you'd recognise it. What's the use of mortifying me when I
act--speak--behave as any man behaves who--who--is--fond of a--person."

"But I don't mean to--to mortify you. What have I done?"

He dug his hands into the pockets of his riding breeches, took two or
three short turns along the bank, came back to where she was standing.

"You probably don't remember," he said, "one night this spring
when--when--" He stopped short. The vivid tint in her cheeks was his
answer--a swift, disconcerting answer to an incomplete question, the
remainder of which he