I spent the morning working on my garden. It is my peculiarity that when I begin a thing I find no rest until it is finished. By ten o'clock I had cleared the surface of all the available area, and felt much pleased with my efforts. I had worked hard, for there were loose rocks to be got rid of, some of them large and difficult to handle, in addition to the leaves and sticks. But prospects seemed excellent for a fine crop. There was no doubt that this was virgin soil, and as it lay in sun for several hours each day, there was no valid reason why it should not produce abundantly. I must now let it dry out for a few days, then spade it up and plant my seed. Seed! Why, I hadn't so much as a pea or a bean on the place, except in cans! I had several sacks of potatoes, but I wanted a diversified garden. Almost immediately the solution came. I would go to Hebron and buy all the seed I wanted. Comforted by this thought, I set about an early dinner. I hummed contentedly as I bustled around in my small kitchen. It was not until I sat down to eat that I realized the song I had been persistently repeating was the absurd tune which had heralded Jeff Angel's coming and farewelled his departure. Later, with the sun swinging exactly at meridian, I took my staff and headed down the road, intending for the Dryad's Glade. Ever since my brief talk with the girl there had been a slow, steady pulling within me toward that creek which flowed south. It didn't worry me especially; in fact, it didn't worry me at all--why should it? But it was there. When I was employed I was not aware of it, but whenever my mind rested there flowed into it, like the resurgence of a low, moon-touched wave, the picture of one standing on the brook's bank, with copper-red curls crowned with white stars. It was a pleasant picture, and I did not try to banish it. Now, fairly started on my way, I wondered that I had not gone before. I moved with restive eagerness, and presently reached the spot where I had encountered the girl--Lessie. I did not like the name. It was empty, vapid, meaningless, ugly; just a sound by which one was known. She could not help it, of course. It might have been Mandy, or Seliny. Lessie did not seem so terrible when I thought of others much worse, but it did not fit her. I tarried for a moment under the dogwood tree. Its blossoms were fading now. I saw the jagged ends of several low branches where she had broken off her coronal. But there was no sign of squirrel or bird. Passing on, I plunged into the undergrowth which lined the creek bank as far as I could see, and made my way along. There was something of a valley here, and it would have been easier going nearer the base of the knob several rods away, but the stream's course was erratic, so I clung to the bank and fought my way forward. It was a toilsome journey, and the half-mile was beginning to seem interminable when all at once I burst, perspiring, into an open, and found I had arrived.