[Illustration: Catching Pollywogs] "Look at this little one! How beautifully green and speckled!" She held the little squirming, slippery thing fondly in her hand. "I wish I were a pollywog!" said Lord Canning. This remark, coming from such a source, appealed to Indiana’s sense of humor. She laughed until the tears rose to her eyes, while Lord Canning surveyed her with a deeply injured expression. "It’s most unkind of you to ridicule my ambitions in this way, Miss Stillwater." "And such lofty ambitions, too." "They were—once, but they have gradually diminished, until now I am quite satisfied to be a pollywog—but that one in your hand, you understand." Indiana put it into the bottle, then leaned back on the soft ground clasping her hands behind her head. "Tired—so soon? But you weary of most things like this, I have perceived—a truly feminine trait." He lit a cigar. It was one of those fair, bright autumn days, when one could imagine it was June instead of September, were it not for the glorious splashes of color that enlivened the lake. "Do you notice," said Indiana, gazing upward through the pines, "how near the sky seems to us here?" "Yes," said Lord Canning, "heaven seems very near to me here"—he bent down, looking into her eyes—"very near, and sometimes very far—" The sound of a mandolin floated to them over the water. "Glen!" cried Indiana, starting up. Lord Canning rose also, self-contained and somewhat pale. They watched the boat growing larger. Burt was rowing and Glen playing, "My Georgia Lady-love." Indiana stood up and waved her handkerchief. "Why does he play that now?" she thought. "He played it that day in the orchard—when he told me—and I was sorry for him. It was such a beautiful day! He said there would never be another—maybe there won’t. "’Way down in dear old Georgia State, We parted—but she said she would wait—’" sang Indiana, to the familiar strains. "There were so many apple-blossoms, and they were falling—falling over my face, my neck, my hair. The sky was so blue when I looked up through the blossoms—a different blue from this— ’She slowly dropped her head, And then she softly said: ’Mister Johnson, ’deed I loves you too.’’ We cried and made ourselves miserable—I wanted to kiss and comfort him, I wanted to whisper what he wished to hear—but something held me back. I was sorry for myself as well as for him. I wanted to please everyone—his folks and mine—but I couldn’t. I didn’t know then—I was waiting for this. But I’m sorry for Glen—so sorry!" She saw the boat through a mist of tears and the mandolin sounded far, very far away, as though Glen were still playing it in the orchard of her memory, where the blossoms fell, in a last rosy glow of the sun.