"MINNIE, MINNIE," SHE SAID, "I MUST GUARD MY SECRET."

Donald Morrison was now twenty-three. The promise of his boyhood had
been realized. He was well made, with sinews like steel. He had a blonde
moustache, clustering hair, a well shaped mouth, firm chin. His blue
eyes had a proud, fearless look. The schoolmarm had taught Donald the
three "R's"; he had read a little when he could spare the money for
books; and at the period we are now dealing with he was looked up to
by all in the village as a person of superior knowledge. His youth and
young manhood had been spent working upon his father's farm. Latterly he
had been working upon land which his father had given him, in the hope
that he would marry and settle down. He had become restless. The village
was beginning to look small, and he asked himself with wonderment how
he had been content in it so long. The work was hard and thankless. Was
this life? Was there nothing beyond this? Was there not not a great
world outside the forest? What was this? Was it not stagnation? The
woods--yes, the woods were beautiful, but why was it they made him sad?
Why was it that when the sun set against the background of the purple
line of trees, he felt a lump in his throat? Why, when he walked along
the roads in the summer twilight, did the sweet silence oppress him?
He could not tell. He knew that he wanted away. He longed to be in the
world of real men and women, where joy and suffering, and the extremest
force of passion had active play.

Minnie was now a schoolmarm--neat and simple, and sweet. Her figure was
slender, and her hair a deep gold, parted simply in the centre, brought
over the temples in crisp waves, and wound into a single coil behind.
Her head was small and gracefully poised; her teeth as white as
milk, because they had never experienced the destructive effects of
confectionery; her cheeks, two roses in their first fresh bloom, because