He was not the first young man to whom that wish had come at such a moment. But converse between them was at ebb tide just now, and the parting moment, ever creeping nearer, overshadowed all else. To Chip--known only to herself--it meant forever. To Ray, another long isolation from all the world and young associates, and all for a few hundred dollars sorely needed by him, yet seeming of scant value compared to the sweet companionship of this maid. Then Chip's feelings and the reason for them were quite beyond him. He could not see why she was unwilling to ask to be taken to the woods again, nor why she held herself aloof from him. She had not done so at the lake, or when they met again, and why should she now? Something of this might have been inferred by Chip, for she suddenly arose. "I think we'd best go back," she said. "It's time, and Hannah will be watching for me." What Ray might have said had he been a world-wise man, does not matter. What he did was to pick up his useless banjo, and clasping Chip's arm, led her along the winding walk. Below the falls and near the house they paused, for now the last moment alone together had come, and with it the real parting. "Tell Old Cy I--I haven't forgot him," whispered Chip, her voice quivering, "and--and--you won't forget me either, will you, Ray?" That little sob in her speech was all that was needed to break away the barrier between them, for the next instant Ray's arms were about the girl. No words of love, no protestations, no promises. Only one instant's meeting of soul and impulse, fierce as love of life, sacred as the hand of death. Love consecrated it. The shadowing maples blessed it. The stars hallowed it. And yet it was a long, long parting. When Ray rode away next morning, he watched for her at the first sharp hilltop. It was in vain, for Chip's resolve had been taken, and he never saw the forlorn figure crouching behind that bush-topped wall, or knew that two wistful, misty eyes had seen him depart. Few of us ever see even a faint image of ourselves as others see us; and yet, calm reflection spurred to self-analysis by a hungry heart occasionally effects that almost miracle. In Ray's case it did; for after his eager eyes had scanned every rod of that roadside trysting-place in vain, a revelation came to him--not a wide open one, such as he deserved, but a glance at himself and his conduct as it had been. First he saw Chip just as she entered their camp that night in the wilderness, so pitiful in appearance, so pathetic in her abject gratitude. Once again he looked at her appealing eyes growing misty while he played and sang his old-time love songs. He remembered that during all the days, weeks, and months following, he had never failed to find the love-light of admiration when his eyes met hers. It had all been a summer idyl, so sweet, so romantic, so tender, and so unexpected that he had scarce realized its value--not at all then, but faintly now.