Dorian again took the less frequented road home.  The sun was still high when he reached the river.  He was not expected home for some time yet, so there was no need for hurry.  He crossed the footbridge, noticing neither birds nor fish.  Instead of following the main path, he struck off into a by-trail which led him to a tiny grass plat in the shade of a tree by the river.  He sat down here, took off his hat, and pushed back from a freckled, sweating forehead a mop of wavy, rusty-colored hair.  Then he untied his package of books and spread his treasures before him as a miser would his gold.  He opened “David Copperfield”, looked at the frontispiece which depicted a fat man making a very emphatic speech against someone by the name of Heep.  It must all be very interesting, but it was altogether too big a book for him to begin to read now.  “Ben Hur” looked solid and substantial; it would keep until next winter when he would have more time to read.  Then he picked up the “Conquest”, volume one.  He backed up against the tree, settled himself into a comfortable position, took from his paper bag a chocolate at which he nibbled contentedly, and then away he went with Prescott to the land of the Inca and the glories of a vanished race!

For an hour he read.  Then, reluctantly, he closed his book, wrapped up his package again, and went on his homeward way.

The new canal for which the farmers of Greenstreet had worked and waited so long had just been completed.  The big ditch, now full of running water, was a source of delight to the children as well as to the more practical adults.  The boys and girls played on its banks, and waded and sported in the cool stream.  Near the village of Greenstreet was a big headgate, from which the canal branched into two divisions.  As Dorian walked along the canal bank that afternoon, he saw a group of children at play near the headgate.  They were making a lot of robust noise, and Dorian stopped to watch them.  He was always interested in the children, being more of a favorite among them than among the boys of his own age.

“There’s Dorian,” shouted one of the boys.  “Who are you going to marry?”

What in the world were the youngsters talking about, thought the young man, as the chattering children surrounded him.

“What’s all this?” asked Dorian, “a party?”

“Yes; it’s Carlia’s birthday; we’re just taking a walk by the canal to see the water; my, but it’s nice!”

“What, the party or the water?”

“Why, the water.”

“Both” added another.

“We’ve all told who we’re going to marry,” remarked a little rosy-faced miss, “all but Carlia, an’ she won’t tell.”

“Well, but perhaps Carlia don’t know.  You wouldn’t have her tell a fib, would you?”

“Oh, shucks, she knows as well as us.”

“She’s just stubborn.”