There were prayers after that, and a tender farewell and benediction from the old people, and Roderick went away, his heart strangely heavy. He was to be absent only a short time, perhaps not over two weeks, but he had a feeling that he was bidding his father a lifelong farewell--that he was taking a road that led away from that path in which the man had so carefully guided his young feet. It was not entirely by accident that Roderick should be walking into Algonquin just as Helen Murray was coming out of the Hurd home. He had been very wily, for such an innocent young man. A shadow on the blind, showing the outline of a trim little hat and fluffy hair, had sent him back into the shadows of the Pine Road to stand and shiver until the shadow left the window and the substance came out through the lighted doorway. Gladys came to the gate, her arm about her teacher's waist. They were talking softly. Gladys's voice was not so loud nor her look so bold as it once was. She ran back calling good-night, and the little figure of the teacher went on swiftly up the shaky frosty sidewalk. A few strides and Roderick was at her side. She was right under the electric light at the corner when he reached her and she turned swiftly with such a look of annoyance that he stopped aghast. "Oh, I beg your pardon--" he stammered, but was immensely relieved when she interrupted smiling. "Oh, is it you, Mr. McRae? I--didn't know--I thought it was--some one else," she stammered. Roderick looked puzzled, but the next moment he understood. Just within the rays of the electric light, across the street, was Afternoon Tea Willie, waiting faithfully with chattering teeth and benumbed toes. He stood and stared at Roderick as they passed, and then slowly followed at a distance, the picture of abject desolation. Roderick found it almost impossible to keep from laughing, until he began to consider his own case. He had plunged headlong into her presence, and now he felt he ought to apologise. He tried to, but she stopped him charmingly. "Oh, indeed, I wanted to see you, before you go away," she said, and Roderick felt immensely flattered that she knew so much about his affairs as to be aware that he was going away. "Yes? What can I do for you?" he asked shyly. "I wanted to ask about poor Billy Perkins. Mr. Wilbur got work for him, you know." "Indeed, my father tells me it was you did the good deed," declared Roderick warmly. "No, no, I only helped. But I am anxious about Billy." She spoke as though Roderick were as interested in the Perkins family as his father. "Is there any one up at Mr. Hamilton's camp, I wonder, who would keep an eye on him. He is all right if he's only watched, so that he can't get whiskey. There's young Mr. Hamilton, he's going, isn't he?"