The preacher smiled. It was a very engaging smile, Cissy thought, that lightened his hard mouth. It enabled her to take heart of grace, and presently to chatter like the very birds she had disparaged. Oh yes; she knew she had to learn a great deal more. She had studied “some” already. She was taking lessons over at Point Concepcion, where her aunt had friends, and she went three times a week. The gentleman who taught her was not a Catholic, and, of course, he knew she was a Protestant. She would have preferred to live there, but her mother and father were both dead, and had left her with her aunt. She liked it better because it was sunnier and brighter there. She loved the sun and warmth. She had listened to what he had said about the dampness and gloom of the chapel. It was true. The dampness was that dreadful sometimes it just ruined her clothes, and even made her hoarse. Did he think they would really take his advice and clear out the woods round the chapel? “Would you like it?” he asked pleasantly. “Yes.” “And you think you wouldn't pine so much for the sunshine and warmth of the Mission? “I'm not pining,” said Cissy with a toss of her curls, “for anything or anybody; but I think the woods ought to be cleared out. It's just as it was when the runaways hid there.” “When the RUNAWAYS HID THERE!” said Brother Seabright quickly. “What runaways?” “Why, the boat's crew,” said Cissy. “Why do you call them runaways?” “I don't know. Didn't YOU?” said Cissy simply. “Didn't you say they never came back to Horse Shoe Bay. Perhaps I had it from aunty. But I know it's damp and creepy; and when I was littler I used to be frightened to be alone there practicing.” “Why?” said the preacher quickly. “Oh, I don't know,” hurried on Cissy, with a vague impression that she had said too much. “Only my fancy, I guess.” “Well,” said Brother Seabright after a pause; “we'll see what can be done to make a clearing there. Birds sing best in the sunshine, and YOU ought to have some say about it.” Cissy's dimples and blushes came together this time. “That's our house,” she said suddenly, with a slight accent of relief, pointing to a weather-beaten farmhouse on the edge of the gorge. “I turn off here, but you keep straight on for the Mills; they're back in the woods a piece. But,” she stammered with a sudden sense of shame of forgotten hospitality, “won't you come in and see aunty?” “No, thank you, not now.” He stopped, turning his gaze from the house to her. “How old is your house? Was it there at the time of the wreck?” “Yes,” said Cissy. “It's odd that the crew did not come there for help, eh?” “Maybe they overlooked it in the darkness and the storm,” said Cissy simply. “Good-by, sir.” The preacher held her hand for an instant in his powerful, but gently graduated grasp. “Good-by until evening service.” “Yes, sir,” said Cissy.