“You are preposterously strong,” she approved. His elation, however, collapsed at the condition following. “But strength is simply brutality until it's wisely directed. Mazzini and not Napoleon was my ideal in history.” Who, he wondered unhappily, was Mazzini? “I hated school,” he told her briefly; “I don't believe I have ever read a book through; I'd rather paddle about--with _you_.” “But you have read deep in the book of nature,” she reassured him; “only a very favorite few open those pages. You are such a child,” she added obliquely, “appallingly unsophisticated: that's what's nicest about you, really.” That form of laudation left him cold, and he drove the canoe with a vicious rush against the reflections. “A dear child,” she added, without materially increasing his pleasure. “Words are rot!” he exploded suddenly; “they can't say any of the important things. I could talk a year to you without telling you what I feel--here,” he laid a hand momentarily on his spare, powerful chest; “it's all mixed up, like lead and fire; or that feeling when ice cream goes to your head. You see,” he ended moodily, “all rot.” “It's very picturesque... and apparently painful. Words aren't necessary for the truly important things, Anthony.” “Then you know--what I think of you; you know... how everything else has moved away and left only you; you know a hundred things, all important, all about yourself.” She set an uncertain smile against the rush of his words. The stream narrowed between high banks drawn against the sheer deeps of sky; the water flowed swiftly, with a sustained whisper at the edges, and, for a silent space, he paddled vigorously. Then a profound, glassy pool opened, sodded bluely to the shores, with low, silvery clumps of willows casting sooty shadows across the verd water; and, with a sharp twist, he beached the canoe with a soft shock upon the shelving pebbles. As he held the craft steady he felt the light, thrilling impact of Eliza's palm as she sprang ashore. The others followed rapidly. The canoes were drawn out of the water, and preparations for supper commenced. Eliza and Ellie Ball, accompanied by a youth with a pail, proceeded to a nearby farmhouse in quest of milk. Anthony lingered at the water's edge, ignoring the appeal for firewood. The glow of the westering sun faded from the air, and the reflection of the fire lighted behind him danced ruddy op the grass. At intervals small fish splashed invisibly, and a kingfisher cried downstream. Then he heard his sister's voice, and a familiar and moving perfume hovered in his nostrils. He turned and saw Eliza with her arms full of white lilacs. Her loveliness left him breathless, mingled with the low sun it blinded him. She seemed all made of misty bloom--a fragrant spirit of ineffable flowers. The scent of the lilacs stirred profound, inarticulate emotions within him, like the poignant impression left by a forgotten dream of shivering delight.