"The bow of promise," murmured Sylvia. She stretched out her hands to the mill. "Just open them a little way," she said. "You're no unhappier than I was, but I've found it such a good world! Just open your shutters and look. You'll always be glad. Perhaps you can't have everything you want, perhaps not the very thing you want most. What of that? Can't you trust? I'm learning to. 'Love alone will stay,' and it won't forget. It never forgets." The girl's eyes lifted to the glorifying arch. One end curved to a distant forest and was lost, and the other dipped deep within the ocean. The Tide Mill grew to radiance beneath its caress. It seemed on the point of yielding, and opening gently to the setting sun. At the climax of color Sylvia, smiling, dropped her eyelids. She would not see it fade. Suddenly, her ear was caught by a note as of a distant bell; then a tangle of bells, tiny, musical, and the song of the hermit thrush rang out from the far thicket. [Illustration: Bar of music] Sylvia caught her lip between her teeth, and her heart swelled. The next morning nature, as always after a gloomy season, seemed trying to cause forgetfulness of its sulks and tears by bringing the whole battery of its charms to bear upon sea and land. After breakfast Thinkright produced a key from his pocket. "There, my girl," he said, "is the key to the boathouse. I know you can scarcely wait." "That's true," replied Sylvia. "Come on, Minty." The child's round eyes were fixed solemnly on some point beyond Sylvia's shoulder. "I don't know as I care 'bout goin' boatin' this mornin'," she replied decorously. "What?" returned Sylvia, astonished. She remembered now how remarkably quiet the child had been throughout breakfast. "Why, how do you feel, Minty?" "Smart," returned the child, still with her gaze on the uncertain point in space. Thinkright's eyes had a humorous twinkle. "I want Minty to help me a little while this morning," he said. "She'll see you later." Sylvia turned to him, demurring. "She has been looking forward to it so much," she said. "Yes, I know. She won't have to wait long," he replied kindly, putting his arm around the child's shoulders. Mrs. Lem, her hair strained back in its least decorative twist, fixed her offspring with black eyes that snapped. "You're a-goin' to have a good time with Thinkright, ain't you, Minty?" she asked, and the child's breath caught through her little nose as she replied promptly:-- "Yes, I be." Sylvia looked from one to the other uncertainly, but Thinkright was patting the little shoulder he held, and he nodded at her reassuringly. "Run along, Sylvia. You'll find everything in good shape." "I never saw such a man," thought the girl as she went down the hill. "How did he know that it would mean so much to me to go out alone just this first morning? Oh, Thinkright, Thinkright," she sighed. "How great it is to have come where you are; to have one's skylight always open, and the trap door always closed!"