It did not worry me--the fact that I might be on the verge of serious trouble, did not; but the thought of Guinea's careless smile lay cold upon my heart, and all night I was restless under it. And when I went down stairs at dawn I met her in the passage way, carrying a light. She looked up at me, shielding the light with her hand to keep the breeze from blowing it out, and smiled, and in her smile there was no coolness, and yet there was naught to show me that she had passed an anxious night. Ah, love, we demand that you shall not only be happy, but miserable at our wish. We would dim your eye when our own is blurred; we would smother your heart when our own is heavy, and would pierce it with a pain. Upon her children this old world has poured the wisdom of her gathered ages, and could we look from another sphere we might see the minds of great men twinkling like the stars, but the human heart is yet unschooled, yet has no range of vision, but chokes and sobs in its own emotion, as it did when the first poet stood upon a hill and cried aloud to an unknown God. Away across the valley and over the hills the peeping sun was a glaring scollop when I came out to take my course through the woods toward the school. I knew that the girl stood in the door behind me. Alf and the old man were already in the field; I could hear them talking to their horses; and Mrs. Jucklin was up stairs--Guinea and I were alone. I turned and looked at her and again she smiled. "The world seems to be holding its breath, waiting for something to happen," she said. "To me it always appears so when there is a lull in the air just at sunrise." "What a fanciful little creature you are," I replied. "Little! Oh, you mustn't call me little. I'm taller than mother. I don't want to be little, although it is more appealing. I want to be commanding." "But what can be more commanding than an appeal?" I asked. "Yes, when the appeal is pitiful, but I don't want any one to pity me," she said, laughing. "You big folks have such a patronizing way. You don't look well this morning, Mr. Hawes. Is it because you have been worrying over those wretched Aimes boys? Won't you please forgive me?" she quickly added. "I don't know why I said that, for I ought to know that you are not afraid of them." "I didn't sleep very well," I answered, "but I was not thinking of the Aimes boys. Shall I tell you what worried me?" "Yes, surely." "It may require almost an unwarranted frankness on my part, but I will tell you. It seemed to me that----" I hesitated. "Go on," she said. "Well, it seemed that you were strangely unconcerned when I told you that I was likely to have trouble with those people." She stood with her head resting against the door-facing. I looked hard at her, striving to catch some sign of emotion, but I saw no evidence of feeling; she was cool and reserved.