If only just once she had ever betrayed the slightest knowledge of his presence in her vicinity he might, little by little, cautiously, and by degrees, have ventured to speak to her. But she never had evinced the slightest shadow of interest in anything as far as he had noticed. Now, as he sat there, the burnt out pipe between his teeth, watching alternately his rod and his divinity, the rose-breasted grosbeak began to sing in the pink light of sunset. Clear, pure, sweet, the song rang joyously from the tip of the balsam's silver-green spire. He rested his head on one hand and listened. The song of this bird, the odour of heliotrope, the ruddy sunlight netting the ripples--these, for him, must forever suggest her. He had curious fancies about her and himself. He knew that, if she ever did turn and look at him out of those lilac-tinted eyes, he must fall in love with her, irrevocably. He admitted to himself that already he was in love with all he could see of her--the white neck and dull gold hair, the fair cheek's curve, the glimpse of her hand as she deliberately turned a page in the book she was reading. But that evening passed as had the others; night came; she lowered her curtain; a faint tracery of lamplight glimmered around the edges; and, as always, he lighted his pipe and took his fish, and shouldered his pole and went home to die the little death we call sleep until the sun of toil should glitter above the eastern hills once more. A few days later he decided to make an ass of himself, having been sent with a wagon to Moss Centre, a neighbouring metropolis. First he sent a telegram to himself at Caranay, signing it William Smith. Then he went to the drug store telephone, and called up Caranay. "Hello! What number, please?" came a far, sweet voice; and Marque trembled: "No number. I want to speak to Mr. Marque--Mr. John Marque." "He isn't here." "Are you sure?" "Perfectly. I saw him driving one of Mr. Willett's wagons across the track this morning." "Oh, that's too bad. Could I--might I--ask a little information of you?" "Certainly." "What sort of a fellow is this John Marque? He doesn't amount to much I understand." "What do you mean?" "Well, I might want to employ him, but I don't believe he is the sort of man to trust----" "You are mistaken!" she said crisply. "You mean he is all right?" "Absolutely." "Honest?" "Of course." "Capable?" "Certainly." "Sober?" "Perfectly." "M-moral?" "Unquestionably!" she said indignantly. "Are you sure?" "I am." "How do you know?" "I have means of information which I am not at liberty to disclose. Who is this speaking?" "William Smith of Minnow Hollow." "Are you going to take Mr. Marque to Minnow Hollow?" "I may." "You can't. Mr. Willett employs him." "Suppose I offer him better wages----" "He is perfectly satisfied here." "But I----" "No! Mr. Marque does not care to leave Caranay." "But----" "I am sorry. It is useless to even suggest it to him. Good-bye!"