“H’m—­left it to ride down on, I suppose.  Wants to take another turn down the rapids before he goes.”

“Ay, that’s it.  Likes that way better than going on a raft like ordinary folk.  That’s him coming down, isn’t it?”

Olof came racing down like the wind.

A girl in the group turned pale.  She could see from his manner what had passed.  Something terrible it must have been to bring him down in a fury like that.

He came nearer.  His face was deadly pale, his lips compressed, and his eyes flashed, though he looked out over the water all the time.

He raised his hat as he passed the group, but without a glance at anyone.

“What’s happened now?” The question was in all eyes, but no one spoke.

Olof grasped his pole, thrust off the log, and sprang out on it.  He took a few powerful strokes, and turned, casting his eyes over the group on the shore.  He was looking for one amongst them—­and found her.

“Good-bye!” he cried, waving his hat.

“Good-bye—­good-bye!  Come again some day to Kohiseva!”

The men waved their hats, the girls fluttered kerchiefs in farewell.

Olof was still facing toward the shore, paddling slowly out across the creek.

Those on shore would have sent him a friendly word, but no one spoke—­all were looking at a girl whose face was strangely pale.

Paler than ever it seemed as the man stopped rowing, and fixed his eyes on the group.

  “Ay, cast your coins in a beggar’s hat,
      And he’ll bless your charity. 
  I was good enough for the girl I loved,
      But her kin were prouder than she!”

There was a depth of bitterness in the words—­the listeners started involuntarily.

“What’s taken him all at once?  Never heard him sing that way before!”

“Sh!  Listen!”

The singer glanced down at the water, took a few strokes out, and went on: 

  “My home is where the rapids roar,
      Below the river’s brink. 
  All the rivers of all the world—­
      Who cares if he swim or sink?”

The listeners glanced at one another—­the meaning of the song was growing clear.

  “’Twas no spring day that gave me life
      With sunlit skies and clear,
  But a leafless gloom that sent me forth
      To wander many a year.

  My mother wept in her garden lone,
      Or ever I was born; Looked at a
  blood-red flower and wept
      For that her heart was torn.”

He was midway across now, paddling slowly, bending a little forward.  Those on the shore stood still, waiting.

  “And that same flower grew red in my way,
      And I wished it for my own. 
  I won but little joy of its bloom
      That was in sorrow grown.

  But little joy when my father rose
      And drove me from his door,
  And my mother wept as I went to seek
      What sorrow was yet in store.”