To Silas she was always Lady Ann. He gave her this title without any thought or knowledge of foreign customs. "Miss Roice" would have been too formal, and "Ann" or "Annette" would have been too familiar. "Lady Ann" seemed to have the proper ring of respect, familiarity, and distinction. In his view a "lady" was a creature as near perfection as anything could be in this world. When a girl of eighteen she had taught in the log school-house. Since the death of her mother the care of the little home had fallen upon her. She was a well-fed, cheerful, and comely creature with a genius for housekeeping. June had come, and Silas was getting ready to go into camp. There was no longer any peace for him in the clearing. The odor of the forest and the sight of the new leaves gave him no rest. Had he not heard in his dreams the splash of leaping trout, and deer playing in the lily-pads? In the midst of his preparations, although a silent man, the tumult of joy in his breast came pouring out in the whistled refrain of "Yankee Doodle." It was a general and not a special sense of satisfaction which caused him to shake with laughter now and then as he made his way along the rough road. Sometimes he rubbed his long nose thoughtfully. A nature-loving publisher, who often visited his camp, had printed some cards for him. They bore these modest words: S. STRONG GUIDE AND CONTRIVER He was able in either capacity, but his great gift lay in tongue control--in his management of silence. He was what they called in that country "a one-word man." The phrase indicated that he was wont to express himself with all possible brevity. He never used more than one word if that could be made to satisfy the demands of politeness and perspicacity. Even though provocation might lift his feeling to high degrees of intensity, and well beyond the pale of Christian sentiment, he was never profuse. His oaths would often hiss and hang fire a little, but they were in the end as brief and emphatic as the crack of a rifle. This trait of brevity was due, in some degree, to the fact that he stammered slightly, especially in moments of excitement, but more to his life in the silence of the deep woods. Silas Strong had filled his great pack at the store and was nearing his winter home--a rude log-house in the little forest hamlet. He let the basket down from his broad back to the doorstep. His sister Cynthia, small, slim, sternfaced, black-eyed, heart and fancy free, stood looking down at him. "Wal, what now?" she demanded, in a voice not unlike that of a pea-hen. "T'-t'-morrer," he stammered, in a loud and cheerful tone. "What time to-morrer?" "D-daylight." "I knew it," she snapped, sinking into a chair, the broom in her hands, and a woful look upon her. "You've got t' hankerin'." Silas said nothing, but entered the house and took a drink of water. Cynthia snapped: "If I wanted t' marry Net Roice I'd marry 'er an' not be dilly-dallyin' all my life."