The morning after Betty’s return was a perfect spring morning—­the first in that month of May-days.  The sun shone bright and warm; the mayflowers blossomed; the trailing arbutus scented the air; everywhere the grass and the leaves looked fresh and green; swallows flitted in and out of the barn door; the blue-birds twittered; a meadow-lark caroled forth his pure melody, and the busy hum of bees came from the fragrant apple-blossoms.

“Mis’ Betty, Madcap ‘pears powerfo’ skittenish,” said old Sam, when he had led the pony to where Betty stood on the hitching block.  “Whoa, dar, you rascal.”

Betty laughed as she leaped lightly into the saddle, and soon she was flying over the old familiar road, down across the creek bridge, past the old grist-mill, around the fort and then out on the river bluff.  The Indian pony was fiery and mettlesome.  He pranced and side-stepped, galloped and trotted by turns.  He seemed as glad to get out again into the warm sunshine as was Betty herself.  He tore down the road a mile at his best speed.  Coming back Betty pulled him into a walk.  Presently her musings were interrupted by a sharp switch in the face from a twig of a tree.  She stopped the pony and broke off the offending branch.  As she looked around the recollection of what had happened to her in that very spot flashed into her mind.  It was here that she had been stopped by the man who had passed almost as swiftly out of her life as he had crossed her path that memorable afternoon.  She fell to musing on the old perplexing question.  After all could there not have been some mistake?  Perhaps she might have misjudged him?  And then the old spirit, which resented her thinking of him in that softened mood, rose and fought the old battle over again.  But as often happened the mood conquered, and Betty permitted herself to sink for the moment into the sad thoughts which returned like a mournful strain of music once sung by beloved voices, now forever silent.

She could not resist the desire to ride down to the old sycamore.  The pony turned into the bridle-path that led down the bluff and the sure-footed beast picked his way carefully over the roots and stones.  Betty’s heart beat quicker when she saw the noble tree under whose spreading branches she had spent the happiest day of her life.  The old monarch of the forest was not one whit changed by the wild winds of winter.  The dew sparkled on the nearly full grown leaves; the little sycamore balls were already as large as marbles.

Betty drew rein at the top of the bank and looked absently at the tree and into the foam covered pool beneath.  At that moment her eyes saw nothing physical.  They held the faraway light of the dreamer, the look that sees so much of the past and nothing of the present.