n the clasp of his firm, brown
one. She felt, at least, that sentiment that is akin to love.

"Don't take it so hard, please," she said, gently. "It's all for the
best. I've reasoned it out very wisely all by myself. Some day you'll
be glad I didn't marry you. It would be very nice and lovely for a
while--but, just think! In only a few short years what different
tastes we would have! One of us would want to sit by the fireside and
read, and maybe nurse neuralgia or rheumatism of evenings, while the
other would be crazy for balls and theatres and late suppers. No, my
dear friend. While it isn't exactly January and May, it's a clear case
of October and pretty early in June."

"I'd always do what you wanted me to do, Theo. If you wanted to--"

"No, you wouldn't. You think now that you would, but you wouldn't.
Please don't ask me any more."

The Captain had lost his battle. But he was a gallant warrior, and
when he rose to make his final adieu his mouth was grimly set and his
shoulders were squared.

He took the train for the North that night. On the next evening he was
back in his room, where his sword was hanging against the wall. He was
dressing for dinner, tying his white tie into a very careful bow. And
at the same time he was indulging in a pensive soliloquy.

"'Pon my honour, I believe Theo was right, after all. Nobody can deny
that she's a peach, but she must be twenty-eight, at the very kindest
calculation."

For you see, the Captain was only nineteen, and his sword had never
been drawn except on the parade ground at Chattanooga, which was as
near as he ever got to the Spanish-American War.

XVI

THE CHURCH WITH AN OVERSHOT-WHEEL

Lakelands is not to be found in the catalogues of fashionable summer
resorts. It lies on a low spur of the Cumberland range of mountains
on a little tributary of the Clinch River. Lakelands proper is
a contented village of two dozen houses situated on a forlorn,
narrow-gauge railroad line. You wonder whether the railroad lost
itself in the pine woods and ran into Lakelands from fright and
loneliness, or whether Lakelands got lost and huddled itself along
the railroad to wait for the cars to carry it home.

You wonder again why it was named Lakelands. There are no lakes, and
the lands about are too poor to be worth mentioning.

Half a mile from the village stands the Eagle House, a big, roomy
old mansion run by Josiah Rankin for the accommodation of visitors
who des