Jerome came to camp every day, Billy attending him. Miss Brooks in her bathing dress floated on the river, holding to his boat; and he kept a maternal eye on her while she disported herself. He brought her Indian hatchets, and arrow-heads, and a piece or two of pottery left by the Shawnee tribe. The two explored creeks and islands to such extent that Billy frequently left them in disgust. He snipped grass, and quavered to himself, while Miss Brooks read or talked to Jerome. She talked to Jerome as if he were a rational being. His delight in the woods was even keener than hers, and his knowledge of wild creatures much greater. He taught her skill in fishing. His joyful father brought offerings of eggs and cream and Martha Dempsey’s peach preserves. “The Babe pretty nigh lives on this side of the river now. I ’low I ought to help victual the camp.” “We can’t do without him,” said the girl. “He makes all our good times.” “The Babe seems to be growin’ older-like this summer,” mused his father. “He ain’t to say manlier, but he’s different.” “Do you think so?” said Miss Brooks, startled. Her color faded to ivory. She was sitting in a hammock, and occasionally stretched out a sandaled foot to propel it. The old man felt her beauty with a dumb jealousy of all bright young creatures who had not been robbed, like his boy, of their birthright. Jerome came later in the afternoon, and found his daily companion still in her hammock, but changed toward him. He had just finished an æolian harp for her. It had required days to properly season the wood, and other days to assort the colors and dry the glue which held different layers together. The instrument was a thing of beauty, with even little keys to wind the strings. He had worked over it with all his faculties excited; and now when he stood before her, holding it very tenderly on his arm, she scarcely looked at it. But Jerome knew what to do. He moved off with his harp and fixed it in the low fork of a tree. Then he raised its bridges, and turned to watch her face. The harp sighed, and began on a high key “The Last Rose of Summer,” but after two or three bars, lost its score in a flood of delicious organ harmonies. Now it rose to a cry in the zenith, and now it returned to the “Last Rose,” and died to a whisper of melody. It was the passionate revelation of a human heart. Jerome smiled and nodded his head; for the girl’s chin and lips trembled. She let her book slip down the hammock. “Talks,” insisted Jerome, claiming her attention for the harp. “I made it to talk to you.” “But it’s so sorrowful,” said Lilian. “It--isn’t--quite right,” explained Jerome. “Can’t carry its tune.” “And you made it for me?” “Yes. I been a month.” “You do too much for me. I have been very selfish to take so much of your time.” Jerome put up his lip like a grieved child. “Don’t do that!” said Miss Brooks sharply, blanching white. “What must I do?” “Sit down here, and let me read to you.”