A noble river is the St. John, enwrapped with the halo of romance and deeds of daring.  In days long ago it bore upon its bosom the light canoes of Indians as they journeyed to and fro for trading or warlike purposes.  It felt the surge of larger vessels, both of England and France, during the stirring days when those two nations contended for the supremacy of a virgin land.  Later it saw the slow-creeping boats of hardy pioneers, Loyalists, who came to make for themselves homes in the wilderness.  Its shores re-echoed to the shouts and songs of sturdy raftsmen in the days when acres of great logs were floated down to the sea.  It had cradled upon its bosom fleets of boats, their white sails swelling to every wind that blew.  These were gradually replaced by noisy steamers and tugs until only a few remained, of which the “Eb and Flo” was one.

To an imaginative mind the history of such a river would be sufficient to thrill the soul.  But to the youth sitting there alone upon deck it meant nothing.  In fact, he did not notice the beauty of the evening, nor the soft calmness which surrounded him.  His mind was upon other things.  He was thinking of the scene which had just been enacted on board the boat.  He was in a rebellious mood, and now, as often before, quietness and deep thought were his two choice friends.  He glanced occasionally toward the shore and up to the little cottage nestling among the trees.  It was his home, and yet he had little affection for the place.  It was there he had received food and shelter nearly all his life, but no sweet memories clustered around that little house.  He had always been misunderstood, and he could not recall the time when he had not been scolded for everything he did.  His mother was a woman who did her duty according to her light, and looked well after the bodily welfare of her family.  But she overlooked the fact that people need more than bread and clothing, and that eternal scrubbing, washing and dusting do not make a real home.  For the first time in his life he felt a deep pity for his father as he thought of the stern inquisition he was no doubt undergoing.  And Flo, too, would have much to say, for her mother had moulded her according to her own design.

“Poor dad must be having a lively time of it now,” he mused.  “I wish he’d show a little more spunk, an’ stand up fer his rights.  Ma an’ Flo’d think more of him if he did.  I don’t believe all women act that way.  I wonder——?”

His thoughts trailed off to the one girl who had ever stirred his soul.  How different she was from his own sister, he thought.  He felt quite sure that she would not always be finding fault with everything he did.  His eyes glowed with a new light, and his heart beat faster as he remembered how interested she had been in his drawings.  Then his feelings underwent a swift change.  He was nothing to her.  She never once thought of him after she met Hampton at the quarry.  And he had struck her instead of his enemy!  Would she ever learn the truth? he wondered.