“I will read to you.” said Betty taking up the book.  He lay back against the grassy bank and gazed dreamily at the many hued trees on the little hillside; at the bare rugged sides of McColloch’s Rock which frowned down upon them.  A silver-breasted eagle sailed slowly round and round in the blue sky, far above the bluff.  Alfred wondered what mysterious power sustained that solitary bird as he floated high in the air without perceptible movement of his broad wings.  He envied the king of birds his reign over that illimitable space, his far-reaching vision, and his freedom.  Round and round the eagle soared, higher and higher, with each perfect circle, and at last, for an instant poising as lightly as if he were about to perch on his lonely crag, he arched his wings and swooped down through the air with the swiftness of a falling arrow.

Betty’s low voice, the water rushing so musically over the falls, the great yellow leaves falling into the pool, the gentle breeze stirring the clusters of goldenrod—­all came softly to Alfred as he lay there with half closed eyes.

The time slipped swiftly by as only such time can.

“I fear the melancholy spirit of the day has prevailed upon you,” said Betty, half wistfully.  “You did not know I had stopped reading, and I do not believe you heard my favorite poem.  I have tried to give you a pleasant afternoon and have failed.”

“No, no,” said Alfred, looking at her with a blue flame in his eyes.  “The afternoon has been perfect.  I have forgotten my role, and have allowed you to see my real self, something I have tried to hide from all.”

“And are you always sad when you are sincere?”

“Not always.  But I am often sad.  Is it any wonder?  Is not all nature sad?  Listen!  There is the song of the oriole.  Breaking in on the stillness it is mournful.  The breeze is sad, the brook is sad, this dying Indian summer day is sad.  Life itself is sad.”

“Oh, no.  Life is beautiful.”

“You are a child,” said he, with a thrill in his deep voice “I hope you may always be as you are to-day, in heart, at least.”

“It grows late.  See, the shadows are falling.  We must go.”

“You know I am going away to-morrow.  I don’t want to go.  Perhaps that is why I have been such poor company today.  I have a presentiment of evil I am afraid I may never come back.”

“I am sorry you must go.”

“Do you really mean that?” asked Alfred, earnestly, bending toward her “You know it is a very dangerous undertaking.  Would you care if I never returned?”

She looked up and their eyes met.  She had raised her head haughtily, as if questioning his right to speak to her in that manner, but as she saw the unspoken appeal in his eyes her own wavered and fell while a warm color crept into her cheek.

“Yes, I would be sorry,” she said, gravely.  Then, after a moment:  “You must portage the canoe round the falls, and from there we can paddle back to the path.”