Once he had thought the way to the Briscoe homestead rather a long walk; but now the distance sped malignantly; and strolled they never so slow, it was less than a “young bird's flutter from a wood.” With her acquiescence he rolled a cigarette, and she began to hum lightly the air of a song, a song of an ineffably gentle, slow movement. That, and a reference of the morning, and, perhaps, the smell of his tobacco mingling with the fragrance of her roses, awoke again the keen reminiscence of the previous night within him. Clearly outlined before him rose the high, green slopes and cool cliff-walls of the coast of Maine, while his old self lazily watched the sharp little waves through half-closed lids, the pale smoke of his cigarette blowing out under the rail of a waxen deck where he lay cushioned. And again a woman pelted his face with handfuls of rose-petals and cried: “Up lad and at 'em! Yonder is Winter Harbor.” Again he sat in the oak-raftered Casino, breathless with pleasure, and heard a young girl sing the “Angel's Serenade,” a young girl who looked so bravely unconscious of the big, hushed crowd that listened, looked so pure and bright and gentle and good, that he had spoken of her as “Sir Galahad's little sister.” He recollected he had been much taken with this child; but he had not thought of her from that time to this, he supposed; had almost forgotten her. No! Her face suddenly stood out to his view as though he saw her with his physical eye--a sweet and vivacious child's face with light-brown hair and gray eyes and a short upper lip. ... And the voice.... He stopped short and struck his palms together. “You are Tom Meredith's little cousin!” “The Great Harkless!” she answered, and stretched out her hand to him. “I remember you!” “Isn't it time?” “Ah, but I never forgot you,” he cried. “I thought I had. I didn't know who it was I was remembering. I thought it was fancy, and it was memory. I never forgot your voice, singing--and I remembered your face too; though I thought I didn't.” He drew a deep breath. “_That_ was why----” “Tom Meredith has not forgotten you,” she said, as he paused. “Would you mind shaking hands once more?” he asked. She gave him her hand again. “With all my heart. Why?” “I'm making a record at it. Thank you.” “They called me 'Sir Galahad's little sister' all one summer because the Great John Harkless called me that. You danced with me in the evening.” “Did I?” “Ah,” she said, shaking her head, “you were too busy being in love with Mrs. Van Skuyt to remember a waltz with only me! I was allowed to meet you as a reward for singing my very best, and you--you bowed with the indulgence of a grandfather, and asked me to dance.” “Like a grandfather? How young I was then! How time changes us!” “I'm afraid my conversation did not make a great impression upon you,” she continued. “But it did. I am remembering very fast. If you will wait a moment, I will tell you some of the things you said.”