When the old mill finally came in sight, Sylvia averted her face. While the boat stole through its cold shadow she fixed her eyes on the smiling lake beyond, all alive in the rising tide, and glad, to its last sombre little evergreen pushing sap into the hopeful brightness of its tips. "Thank you so much, Benny," she said, when finally she stood on the shore. "I've been a very stupid passenger, but I hope you'll forgive me." "I didn't want to talk," returned Benny awkwardly. What he thought was, "I only wish't I was big enough to punch his head." "I got time to carry your bag up to the house, and I'm goin' to," he added firmly. Sylvia demurred, for she did not wish the boy to see the surprise her return would occasion; but he refused to listen to her assurances, and, dropping his anchor in the depths beside a certain rock, he strode off manfully by her side with the bag, only wishing that it were twice as heavy. Fortune favored Sylvia, for Thinkright was the only member of the family who saw her emerge from the woods. He came down the hill to meet the newcomers, and, noting Benny's burden, understood that the girl's return was permanent. He advanced in silence, smiling. Sylvia smiled too, bravely. "The bad penny, you see," she said, as he drew near. "I'm glad to get the penny on any terms," he replied. "Will you pay Benny, please, Thinkright? I hadn't any money with me." The boy took the silver and gave up the bag, casting a furtive glance at Sylvia. "Ye don't want me to come back for yer to-morrer?" he said. "No, thank you, Benny. Good-by." She gave him an April smile, and he returned to the boat muttering to himself, his fist clenched and restless. The girl met Thinkright's kind, questioning look. "I've shown the white feather after all," she said; "but would you mind not asking me anything,--just for to-day?" "Certainly I won't, little one. Don't tell me until you wish to." Sylvia rested her hand on his shoulder as they walked up the hill. "I shall tell the others, if they ask, that I was homesick. Never was a truer word spoken. People have died of homesickness, haven't they, Thinkright? I thought I might die of it if I had to stay there one more night." Her companion did not smile at this extravagance. He was wise, and knew that a wound which is resisted and thrown off by experienced and case-hardened maturity does often crush the thin skin of youth. "Well, we shall all be thoroughly glad to get you back again, dear," he replied. "There's been a yawning hole in the house ever since you left, and Minty actually shed tears last evening in her disappointment that you didn't stay." "Dear little Minty," said Sylvia, gratefully. "The tears and affection were very genuine," said Thinkright smiling, "but the situation is more acute owing to the fact of your rowboat, and that she has been forbidden to use it without you."