fact; but, the circumstances of their first meeting, given, of course,
their peculiar individualities, were, really, quite enough. The fact
that it was springtime might also have had something to do with it.

The morning after her arrival, Betty Jo set to work typing the
manuscript. Brian went to his work on the timbered hillside. In the
evenings, Brian worked over the typewitten pages,--revising, correcting,
perfecting,--and then, as Betty Jo made the final copy for the printers,
they went critically over the work together.

So the hours flew past on busy wings, and the days of the springtime
drew toward summer. The tender green of the new-born leaves and grasses
changed to a stronger, deeper tone. The air, which had been so filled
with the freshness and newness of bursting buds and rain-blessed soil,
and all the quickening life of tree and bush and plant, now carried the
perfume of strongly growing things,--the feel of maturing life.

To Brian, the voices of the river brought a fuller, deeper message, with
a subtle undertone of steady and enduring purpose.

From the beginning, Betty Jo established for herself the habit of
leaving her work at the typewriter in the afternoons, and going for
a walk over the hills. Quite incidentally, at first, her walks
occasionally led her by way of the clearing where Brian was at work
with his ax, and it followed, naturally, that as the end of the day drew
near, the two would go together down the mountain-side to the evening
meal. But long before the book was finished, the little afternoon visit
and the walk together at the day's close had become so established as a
custom that they both accepted it as a part of their day's life; and to
Brian, at least, it was an hour to which he looked forward as the most