it larger. We can double it, easy, if we stick to it and spread
out. No reason why you shouldn't make a fortune out of it, and have a
house just like this on the other corner, when you're my age."

Luke's thoughts were wandering a little. They went out from the stuffy
room, beyond the dusty street, and the jangling cars, and the gilt sign,
and the shop full of dry-goods and notions, and the high desks in the
office--out to the dim, cool forest, where Snowberry and Partridge-berry
and Wood-Magic grow. He heard the free winds rushing over the tree-tops,
and saw the trail winding away before him in the green shade.

"You are very kind," said he, "I hope you will not be disappointed in
me. Sometimes I think, perhaps--"

"Not at all, not at all," said the other. "It's all right. You're well
fitted for it. And then, there's another thing. I guess you like my
daughter Amanda pretty well. Eh? I've watched you, young man. I've had
my eye on you! Now, of course, I can't say much about it--never can be
sure of these kind of things, you know--but if you and she--"

The voice went on rolling out words complacently. But something strange
was working in Luke's blood, and other voices were sounding faintly in
his ears. He heard the lisping of the leaves on the little poplar-trees,
the whistle of the black duck's wings as he circled in the air, the
distant drumming of the grouse on his log, the rumble of the water-fall
in the River of Rocks. The spray cooled his face. He saw the fish rising
along the pool, and a stag feeding among the lily-pads.

"I don't know how to thank you, Mr. Wilson," said he at last, when
the elder man stopped talking. "You have certainly treated me most
generously. The only question is, whether--But to-morrow night, I think,
with your consent, I will speak to your daughter. To-night I am going
down to the store; there is a good deal of work to do on the books."

But when Luke came to the store, he did not go in. He walked along the
street till he came to the river.

The water-side was strangely deserted. Everybody was at supper. A couple
of schooners were moored at the wharf. The Portland steamer had gone
out. The row-boats hung idle at their little dock. Down the river,
drifting and dancing lightly over the opalescent ripples, following the
gentle turns of the current which flowed past the end of the dock where
Luke was standing, came a white canoe, empty and astray.

III

The White Canoe

"That