She was very quiet the rest of the day, but toward evening she climbed the hill and stood looking off across the river. Presently Parker would come that way, for he used a little skiff more frequently; it saved him the long ride to the ford farther above, and when the river was not high, it was a pleasanter method of travel. After a little waiting she saw him coming. How straight he was, and tall! She shook her head impatiently and looked away. In another moment he was at her side. “Come, go out on the river with me for a little while,” he said as he came up. “The days are getting so much longer that it will be light for a great while yet, and this evening is the warmest we have had.” Agnes hesitated. “I must tell mother.” “I asked her, and she consented to my taking you, so long as I did not keep you out too late.” He held open the little gate for her to pass out, and they followed the zigzag path down to the river’s brim. A little skiff was drawn up on the sands; they stepped into it, and Parker took the oars. “How silent you are to-day,” he said after a while. “Has your mother’s coming made you so?” “No, not that. I--I--have something to tell you. I didn’t want to before every one.” She paused a minute and then went on. “When I let the box fall, something fell out from the back of it, some letters and--and--a picture. I picked them up and put them back again, but I wanted to tell you that I couldn’t help seeing the picture.” The man looked at her with an inscrutable smile. He rested his oars, and drew from his hunting-shirt the flat box. Pressing the spring he slid back the panel and drew forth the picture and letters; the last he tore into bits and tossed out upon the waves; the picture he looked at with a little scornful smile, and then that, too, he tore across and tossed overboard. Then he gave a deep sigh, picked up his oars, and pulled steadily. Agnes watched him wonderingly, but she said not a word.