She smiled--a bright, winsome smile which somehow awakened a deeper pity in me. Her true nature seemed revealed in that expression. She was not wicked; not inherently bad, but was weak-willed, easily swayed, susceptible to association and environment. One who loved the smooth road of pleasure more than the stony highway of rectitude; one who had given gratis and unthinkingly the perfume of the fresh flower of her girlhood. Kind of heart, warm of sympathy, impulsive of temperament, irresponsible. "Yes," she said, with a cheery nod; "I live at Hebron." "But you don't _belong_ there?" I insisted. She laughed in a high, not unmusical key, and suddenly dipping her oars, began to propel the boat swiftly through the water. Rowing shows a graceful girl off to advantage, and my companion was richly endowed in this particular. Her little russet shoes were firmly braced, the short skirt revealing a few inches of tapering, tan-stockinged legs; her brown hands gripped the oars firmly, and as she swayed forward and backward with the rhythmic strokes I was conscious of a feeling of admiration for her prowess. In a few moments we had rounded a bend, and here I saw a line stretched across the river, with smaller lines depending from it into the stream. The girl glanced back over her shoulder, dipped one oar and adroitly piloted the boat toward a certain hook, before she spoke. "I belong up yonder--for the summer," she said. I followed her short gesture, and discovered upon a hill to my right what I took to be a brick church, with a brick dwelling near it. As I turned to make reply I saw that something was happening. The girl was doing her best to haul in one of the sunken lines, but the hidden force beneath the surface was combatting her strength fiercely. Before I could offer assistance she had loosed her hold, and instantly the line shot out and tightened, swaying this way and that, cutting the water silently. "I believe I have a whale!" she declared, in big-eyed seriousness, shifting her position and kneeling before taking up her task afresh. "No, don't help me yet"--as I made a forward movement--"it's lots more fun to land one's own fish!" She bent again to the vibrating line, while I held the boat steady and eagerly awaited developments. "I'm from Kansas City," she flung over her shoulder all at once, "and I'm spending the summer with my uncle, the Rev. Jean Dupré--Father John, the villagers call him. I am Beryl Drane."