a dream of long hair, ankle dresses, and girl's shoes. Until that year
Lon had insisted that her hair be kept short, and had himself trimmed
the ebony curls every month. Now, in the damp air, they twisted and
turned in the wildest profusion. The coming of womanhood had thrown new
light into the clear-gray, brown-flecked eyes. At this moment she was
wondering what she and her brother would do if Granny Cronk died. She
shivered as she thought of life in the hut without the protecting old
woman.

Suddenly, from above the Lehigh Valley tracks, she heard the sound of
horses' hoofs. Her attention taken from her meditations, she lifted her
pensive gaze from the lake, wheeled about, and looked for the horseman.
Flea knew that it was not a summer cottager; for many days before the
last of them had taken his family to Ithaca. Perhaps some chance
wayfarer had followed the wrong road. Just below the tracks she caught a
glimpse of a black horse, and as it came nearer Flea noted the rider, a
young man whose kindly dark eyes and white teeth dazzled her. His
straight legs were incased in yellow boots, his fine form in a tightly
fitting riding-coat. Flea had never seen just such a man, not even in
the infrequent visits she made to Ithaca. Something in his smile, as he
drew up his steed and looked down upon her, affected her with a curious
thrill.

"Little girl, will you tell me if I am on the right road to Glenwood?"

Flea's tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. His voice, cultivated and
deep, made her forget for a moment the question he had asked her. Then
she remembered; but instinctively she did not reply in her usual high
squatter tones.