While thus engaged I again suddenly changed my place of residence and manner of living, and this naturally enough. For, as might have been expected, my irregular life since leaving Wild Plum had made me impatient to see something of the great world outside, and so ready for any change that suggested itself. Of such things I often spoke to Constance, but not altogether to her liking, as I could plainly see by the expression of her eyes and more often by the tremor of her lips. In nothing, however, did the sweet creature array herself against anything I proposed, for had she done so I would have given it up, so great was my love for her. Thus we talked, at first vaguely, and then more particularly, but without anything definite, until one day we stood idly watching the War Eagle as she lay moored at the landing below Appletop, when suddenly seizing her hand, I cried out: "Constance, I’m going to get a place on that boat if I can. It’s the very thing we’ve talked about. What happiness to ride up and down the river and see the world, and earn your own living, too!" At this outbreak she was so startled she could not speak, but after a while, turning to me with a sob, said, and sorrowfully enough: "You’ll not do that, Gilbert, and leave your Uncle Job and—me!" "You, Constance—only you!" I answered. "Uncle Job has Miss Betty now, and so will not miss me," I answered. "Oh, but he will! Please don’t think of it any more, Gilbert. I should never see you again, I know," she answered, taking hold of my hands. "Yes, you would, Constance, and often, too, for the boat is passing here all the time. When she ties up in the fall, I will come back, and it’ll not be long, either." "Your uncle will never forgive you, Gilbert. You are like a son to him, as you are to papa." "I know, but I have got to make my way in the world sometime, and why not now?" I answered. "Papa and your Uncle Job will help you to do that, and be glad of the chance." "I know; but what more can they do than they have? And if I don’t do this, Constance, I’ll have to go away to school soon, and then I’ll not see you for a long time, and maybe never. What if they should send me to New York, or thereabouts. It takes months to go, and I couldn’t come back for years!" This and much more I said to win her consent, but most of all the thought that if I went away to school she would see me no more, at last won her to my way. So with tears streaming down her dear face, she put her arms about my neck and bade me do as I wished. "There’s no one on earth so good and sweet as you, Constance," I cried, kissing her. Then, not waiting to say more, I ran down to the landing, calling to her to stay where she was until I returned.