She scorned the hand I extended, but embarked with light confident step and took the paddle. It was growing late. The shadows in the wood were deepening; a chill crept over the water, and, beyond the tower of the chapel, the sky was bright with the splendor of sunset. With a few skilful strokes she brought her little craft beside my pipe, picked it up and tossed it to the wharf. “Perhaps you can pipe a tune upon it,” she said, dipping the paddle tentatively. “You put me under great obligations,” I declared. “Are all the girls at St. Agatha’s as amiable?” “I should say not! I’m a great exception,—and—I really shouldn’t be talking to you at all! It’s against the rules! And we don’t encourage smoking.” “The chaplain doesn’t smoke, I suppose.” “Not in chapel; I believe it isn’t done! And we rarely see him elsewhere.” She had idled with the paddle so far, but now lifted her eyes and drew back the blade for a long stroke. “But in the wood—this morning—by the wall!” I hate myself to this day for having so startled her. The poised blade dropped into the water with a splash; she brought the canoe a trifle nearer to the wharf with an almost imperceptible stroke, and turned toward me with wonder and dismay in her eyes. “So you are an eavesdropper and detective, are you? I beg that you will give your master my compliments! I really owe you an apology; I thought you were a gentleman!” she exclaimed with withering emphasis, and dipped her blade deep in flight. I called, stammering incoherently, after her, but her light argosy skimmed the water steadily. The paddle rose and fell with trained precision, making scarcely a ripple as she stole softly away toward the fairy towers of the sunset. I stood looking after her, goaded with self-contempt. A glory of yellow and red filled the west. Suddenly the wind moaned in the wood behind the line of cottages, swept over me and rippled the surface of the lake. I watched its flight until it caught her canoe and I marked the flimsy craft’s quick response, as the shaken waters bore her alert figure upward on the swell, her blade still maintaining its regular dip, until she disappeared behind a little peninsula that made a harbor near the school grounds. The red tam-o’-shanter seemed at last to merge in the red sky, and I turned to my canoe and paddled cheerlessly home. CHAPTER VII THE MAN ON THE WALL