“I live with my grandpa in the white house on the road as you came up.” “I didn’t come by the road; I came through by the wood-path from the Curtises. I’m spending the summer there. What a pity this lovely spot is poisoned, I am sorry; I might see you here again but for that. It makes a pretty tryst,” he said. “Sorry? Why? You don’t know me.” This pleased him. He had found a refreshing creature. At the outset he had thrilled at the prospect. “Don’t I? You played once where I had the pleasure of hearing you. Your name is Esther--Esther Powel.” “Yes, and I have seen your face before I saw it in the water. They called you ‘Glenn Andrews’ when they gave you the medal.” She slowly looked him over from head to foot, and smiled as if in a trance of joy. It was all so wonderful, so strange--this hero’s coming. “But I am still ahead. You will never see me win laurels again, perhaps, and I expect to hear you play many times.” “Don’t be sure. It’s no use for me to play. People don’t seem to care whether they hear it or not. I play for myself, because the sounds from my violin seem to express what I feel.” “But suppose I care?” “Then I will play for you sometime, if we should meet again.” “When could I get in your way?” “Most any time.” “Will you be home all summer?” “Yes, and winter, too.” She laughed at his question. “Let us sit down and rest a while together. I want to talk over the pleasure that is in store for me.” Little did he think as she agreed, and they sat down on an old log, how much in later life and amidst different scenes, he was to lament that circumstance. “I have always loved the country. It is so true, so beautiful; I love it from the bottom of my heart.” He lifted his face, drawing a deep breath; the air was clean and sweet with the scent of growing things. “Everything is beautiful that’s natural,” she said, touching the beflowered hat. “I never even wear ‘bought’ flowers, because they are only make-believes. I hate anything that is not sure-enough.” “It’s a pretty idea. I wondered where you found this.” “Just made it.” She seemed to have grasped a good deal for her years. “I see you have learned a way of your own in your travels.” “Travels! I’ve never been out of this valley, but I have grandpa and my mother and my dreams.” “Your mother. I heard that your mother was dead,” he said, quietly. “She isn’t as long as I am living,” was her answer. Glenn Andrews looked at her. There was wisdom in the sentiment she expressed. All the childishness had passed out of her face. He hesitated, astonished. “I believe that, in a sense,” he said. “It is my theory of fulfillment. What could spur us to higher destinies than the belief that we were carrying out the hopes, the aims of someone we loved--perpetuating their life through our own!”