quiet motion. The path led on again, but more faintly here. A line of sycamores two hundred yards to my right marked the bed of the Tippecanoe; and on my left hand, beyond a walnut grove, a little filmy dust-cloud hung above the hidden highway. The meadow was a place of utter peace; the very air spoke of holy things. I thrust my cap into my jacket pocket and stood watching the wind crisp the flowers. Then my attention wandered to the mad antics of a squirrel that ran along the fence. When I turned to the field again I saw Rosalind coming toward me along the path, clad in white, hatless, and her hands lightly brushing the lush grass that seemed to leap up to touch them. She had not seen me, and I drew back a little for love of the picture she made. Three white butterflies fluttered about her head, like an appointed guard of honor, and she caught at them with her hands, turning her head to watch their staggering flight. [Illustration: Three white butterflies fluttered about her head.] She paused abruptly midway of the daisies, and I walked toward her slowly--it must have been slowly--and I think we were both glad of a moment's respite in which to study each other. Then she spoke at once, as though our meeting had been prearranged. "I hoped I should see you," she said gravely. "I had every intention of seeing you! I was killing time until I felt I might decently lift the latch of Red Gate." She inspected me with her hands clasped behind her. "Please don't look at me like that!" I laughed. "I camped in a barn last night for fear I shouldn't get here in time." "I wish to speak to you for a few minutes--to tell you what you may have guessed about us--my father and me." "Yes; if you like; but only to help you if I can. It is not necessary for you to tell me anything." She turned and led the way across the daisy field. She walked swiftly, holding back her skirts from the crowding flowers, traversed the garden of Red Gate, and continued down to the house-boat. "We can be quiet here," she said, throwing open the door. "My father is at Tippecanoe village, shipping one of his canoes. We are early risers, you see!" The little sitting-room adjoining the shop was calm and cool, and the ripple of the creek was only an emphasis of the prevailing rural quiet. She sat down by the table in a red-cushioned wicker chair and folded her hands in her lap and smiled a little as she saw me regarding her fixedly. I suppose I had expected to find her clad in saffron robes or in doublet and hose, but the very crispness of her white piqué spoke delightfully of present times and manners. My glance rested on the emerald ring; then I looked into her eyes again. "You see I am really very different," she smiled. "I'm not the same person at all!" "No; it's wonderful--wonderful!" And I still stared. She grew grave again.