yellowing, between the reddening hedges of underbrush from which the squirrels peeped. She was amused by his knowledge of the paths to be taken. She admired every little view of wood and water which he pointed out. She gave herself up to the simple pleasures of the moment with a charming unreserve that was like a continual compliment to him.
He had never seen her so light-hearted before, and never so uncritically friendly in her acceptance of his opinions and his points of view. Although she said nothing of that part of her life to which Polk belonged, she recalled almost wistfully her past in Coulton, including Don in her memories and astonishing him again by the vividness of her recollection of his small doings. She had been in that photograph of the Sunday-school picnic in which he had been posed among so many little girls that "Miss Margaret" had been jealous of them; she remembered, from the teasing he had suffered in school, how he had given that picture to a girl who had destroyed it; and she confessed that she had hated "the little wretch." When he was somewhat blushingly surprised that she had been so interested in him, even so long ago, she said: "Oh, Edith used to come home and talk at the table about the queer little boy she was teaching. I knew all about you long before I ever met you. We used to wonder what you would be when you grew up."
"I'm afraid. . . I'm rather a disappointment."
"You are—in some ways," she replied lightly. "In other ways you're not."
"What ways?"
"Oh, now," she laughed, "that would be telling."
