There were no shadows on the brow of the precipice when the golden rays from the moon rested broadly upon the road or journeyed in long stately files down the sylvan vistas. Both man and boy had slipped from the verge, and were clambering along the jagged, oblique ledges of the Bluffs, Skimpy often stayed and helped by the strong hand of the other. The moon was higher now in the sky. A white radiant presence suddenly began to walk upon the water. Down between the banks it came, upon the lustrous darkness of the current and the mirrored shadows, diffusing softest splendor, most benignant and serene. Skimpy, pausing to rest, hearing the stir of the pines on the opposite bank and the musical monotone of the river, stood mopping his brow and clinging to the strong arm held out to him; he abruptly pointed out the reflection of the moon to his companion, and asked if it did not remind him of that night on a distant sea when Christ came walking along the troubled waves. A sudden great lurch! It was not Skimpy, but Binwell—the athlete—who started abruptly, and almost fell from the Bluff into the water far below. He recovered himself with an oath. “Ain’t ye got no better sense, ye weasel! ’n ter set out with sech senseless, onexpected gabble in sech a job ez this? Naw, it don’t look like nuthin’—nuthin’ but a powerful onlucky wanin’ moon, a-showin’ how the time’s a-wastin’. Ye hustle yer bones else I’ll drap ye down thar an’ then ye’ll find out what’s walked on the water.” Skimpy said nothing; he heartily wished he was on the top of Keedon Bluffs once more. Their steps dislodged now and then a bit of stone from the rock that fell with a ringing sound against the face of the Bluffs into the river. Sometimes clods dropped with a muffled thud; every moment the moon grew brighter. There were no more stoppages on the way. Binwell urged the boy on whenever he would pause for breath, and it was not long before they were near the gaping cavities that looked grewsome and uninviting enough as Skimpy approached. He cast one despairing glance up at the face of the cliffs—it seemed that he could never again stand on the summit, so long, so toilsome was the way. He might have thought it short enough with some hearty comrade. For Binwell’s grasp was savage now on the boy’s arm; he cursed Skimpy under his breath whenever a step faltered. He no longer cared to be smooth, to propitiate. “He’d take me by the scruff o’ the neck, an’ pitch me into the ruver ef I didn’t do his bid now, bein’ ez I can’t holp myself,” thought Skimpy, appalled. A pity that a boy cannot inherit his father’s experience—but must learn wisdom as it were under the lash!