t, and
the dear Fosters, she loved them all; and her boat, whose dainty oars
she had never handled. Home, a dear home, awaited her. She hoped the
uncontrollable fountain of her tears would dry before the Tide Mill
should feel her presence and seem to say: "I told you so. Better never
to believe in the sunshine. Then you cannot suffer a pang in finding
that, after all, the world holds naught but bitterness and
disappointment."

When the old mill finally came in sight, Sylvia averted her face. While
the boat stole through its cold shadow she fixed her eyes on the
smiling lake beyond, all alive in the rising tide, and glad, to its
last sombre little evergreen pushing sap into the hopeful brightness of
its tips.

"Thank you so much, Benny," she said, when finally she stood on the
shore. "I've been a very stupid passenger, but I hope you'll forgive
me."

"I didn't want to talk," returned Benny awkwardly. What he thought was,
"I only wish't I was big enough to punch his head."

"I got time to carry your bag up to the house, and I'm goin' to," he
added firmly.

Sylvia demurred, for she did not wish the boy to see the surprise her
return would occasion; but he refused to listen to her assurances, and,
dropping his anchor in the depths beside a certain rock, he strode off
manfully by her side with the bag, only wishing that it were twice as
heavy.

Fortune favored Sylvia, for Thinkright was the only member of the
family who saw her emerge from the woods. He came down the hill to meet
the newcomers, and, noting Benny's burden, understood that the girl's
return was permanent.

He advanced in silence, smiling. Sylvia smiled too, bravely. "The bad
penny, you see," she said, as he drew near.

"I'm glad to get the penny on any terms," he replied.

"Will you pay Benny, please, Thinkright? I hadn't any money with me."

The boy took the silver and gave up the bag, casting a furtive glance
at Sylvia.

"Ye don't want me to come back for yer to-morrer?" he said.

"No, thank you, Benny. Good-by." She gave him an April smile, and he
returned to the boat muttering to himself, his fist clenched and
restless.

The girl met Thinkright's kind, questioning look.

"I've shown the white feather after all," she said; "but would you mind
not asking me anything,--just for to-day?"

"Certainly I won't, little one. Don't tell me until you wish to."

Sylvia rested her hand on his shoulder as they walked up the hill. "I
shall tell the