"Your schoolhouse is safe," he announced briefly. "Oh, I've been wanting to know all day but had no one to send! How do YOU know?" she inquired quickly. "It's safe. The yard will have to be cleared of brush: that's all." She looked at him gratefully. "You are always so kind!" "Well," observed David, with a great forward stride, "aren't you?" Gabriella, being a woman, did not particularly prize this remark: it suggested his being kind because she had been kind; and a woman likes nothing as reward, everything as tribute. "And now if the apple trees are only not killed!" she exclaimed joyously, changing the subject. "Why the apple trees?" "If you had been here last spring, you would have understood. When they bloom, they are mine, I take possession." After a moment she added: "They bring back the recollection of such happy times--springs long ago. Some time I'll tell you." "When you were a little girl?" "Yes." "I wish I had known you when you were a little girl," said David, in an undertone, looking into the fire. Gabriella reflected how impossible this would have been: the thought caused her sharp pain. Some time later, David, who had appeared more and more involved in some inward struggle, suddenly asked a relieving question:-- "Do you know the first time I ever saw you?" She did not answer at once. "In the smoke-house," she said with a ripple of laughter. Gabriella, when she was merry, made one, think of some lovely green April hill, snow-capped. David shook his head slowly. His eyes grew soft and mysterious. "It was the first time _I_ ever saw YOU," she protested. He continued to shake his head, and she looked puzzled. "You saw me once before that, and smiled at me." Gabriella seemed incredulous and not well pleased. After a little while David began in the manner of one who sets out to tell a story he is secretly fond of. "Do you remember standing on the steps of a church the Friday evening before Christmas--a little after dark?" Gabriella's eyes began to express remembrance. "A wagon-load of cedar had just been thrown out on the sidewalk, the sexton was carrying it into the church, some children were helping, you were making a wreath: do you remember?" She knew every word of this. "A young man--a Bible student--passed, or tried to pass. You smiled at his difficulty. Not unkindly," he added, smiling not unkindly himself. "And that was you? This explains why I have always believed I had seen you before. But it was only for a moment, your face was in the dark; how should I remember?" After she said this, she looked grave: his face that night had been far from a happy one. "That day," continued David, quickly grave also, "that day I saw my professors and pastor for the last time; it ended me as a Bible student. I had left the University and the scene of my trial only a little while before." He rose as he concluded and took a turn across the room. Then he faced her, smiling a little sadly.