girl,' who always turns out to be the little girl that is listening."

"Mine is not of that kind," replied Lynde, with a smile, steadying Miss
Ruth by the hand as she seated herself on the boulder; "and yet it
touches on you indirectly. It all happened long ago."

"It concerns me, and happened long ago? I am interested already. Begin!"

"It was in the summer of 1872. I was a clerk in a bank then, at
Rivermouth, and the directors had given me a vacation. I hired a crazy
old horse and started on a journey through New Hampshire. I didn't have
any destination; I merely purposed to ride on and on until I got tired,
and then ride home again. The weather was beautiful, and for the first
three or four days I never enjoyed myself better in my life. The flowers
were growing, the birds were singing--the robins in the sunshine and the
whippoorwills at dusk--and the hours were not long enough for me. At
night I slept in a tumble-down barn, or anywhere, like a born tramp. I
had a mountain brook for a wash-basin and the west wind for a towel.
Sometimes I invited myself to a meal at a farm-house when there wasn't a
tavern handy; and when there wasn't any farm-house, and I was very
hungry, I lay down under a tree and read in a book of poems."

"Oh, that was just delightful!" said Ruth, knitting the fingers of both
hands over one knee and listening to him with a child-like abandon which
Lynde found bewitching.

"On the fourth day--there are some persons crossing on the ice," said
Lynde, interrupting himself.

"Never mind the persons on the ice!"